


so a soldier, a dog, and a witch walk into a bar...

by Kess, taywen



Category: Cadeleonian Series - Ginn Hale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Animal Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 16:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15586497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen





	so a soldier, a dog, and a witch walk into a bar...

Elezar’s phone goes off at some unholy hour of the morning, far too soon after he finally got to sleep. He squints at the screen in blank confusion, trying to process why he’s awake and who’s responsible for this wretched state of affairs.

It’s Javier, of course.

“What is it?” Elezar’s voice, husky with sleep, makes the question sound like an impatient demand.

Javier takes it in stride; he’s probably still jet-lagged after their latest mission, something Elezar had been hoping to avoid himself. “Have you checked the news lately?”

“No?” Elezar frowns into the darkness of his bedroom, torn between hanging up, throwing his phone at the wall, and listening to whatever madcap thing Javier has to say. He must have thought it important enough to call this early, though whether Elezar’s own assessment of its importance will match up remains to be seen.

“You remember your old house?”

“Which one.” Actual irritation starts to bleed into his words; if this is going to be another incident similar to the time Javier woke him up to wax lyrical about the most gorgeous man he’d ever seen, Elezar might actually give in to his impulse to stab Javier this time.

“ _Javier, why are you awake_?” comes the voice of Kiram (the most gorgeous man Javier had ever seen) in the background, endearingly drowsy. At least Elezar isn’t the only one being tortured at—almost four in the morning, what the fuck, Javier?

“I’m talking to Elezar,” Javier says blithely.

“ _Is everything all right_?” Now Kiram sounds almost as alert as Javier and Elezar, a note of concern in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Elezar says loudly into the phone, smirking to himself when Javier mutters a curse. “This idiot’s the one who woke me too.”

“As I was saying,” Javier says in an aggrieved tone, as if Elezar and Kiram are the ones being ridiculous, “there’s been a murder at your old family home, Elezar.”

“ _Javier_ ,” Kiram says gently, “ _what the fuck_?”

* * *

The Grunito family had lived in the same manor home for generations, until a month or so after Elezar’s eleventh birthday. After that, his mother had moved Elezar and his brothers from place to place, searching for some kind of peace, or sense of security, or—Elezar doesn’t even know what.

The manor had been converted into a public venue, opened as an historical site for tourists to visit or rent out for various occasions. The private but relatively large chapel on the edge of the grounds made it a popular wedding destination, apparently.

None of them have been back since, but Timoteo has duties in the Church that he can’t escape, their mother is busy with the younger boys, and Nestor has his hands full with his wife and newly-born child, so Elezar is the only Grunito available.

Why the authorities think one of them has to be present, Elezar can’t fathom. He wishes the murderer could have waited another week or so; he’d have been shipped out again, perhaps to the border of the Mirogoth wilds or somewhere further afield. Cadeleon had interests around the world, and their special forces protected, acquired or otherwise dealt with those interests whenever necessary. As it is, his commanding officer gave him a leave of absence to take care of whatever this is.

One of the officers assigned to the murder meets him at the airport. She brought a ghost car - less conspicuous than a standard police vehicle, but still obvious if one knows where to look - so at least Elezar doesn’t feel like he’s being arrested even if she does drive him straight to the station.

The morgue is artificially cold, just like the airport was, but where the terminal had been filled with life, full of people on a journey, the morgue is still: a final destination.

Elezar’s seen dead bodies before - he’s been the reason for them - but he pauses when the coroner pulls back the sheet covering the victim.

“Do you recognize the victim, Mr. Grunito?” the detective asks.

“Yeah,” Elezar says belatedly, unable to drag his eyes away from the heavily-beaten face. “Yeah, I do.”

It’s been years—more than a decade—but beneath the cuts and bruises and more mundane wear of time, Elezar knows the man lying dead before him.

As if he could ever forget the face of Degaro Elota—one of the men who murdered his brother.

* * *

Elezar walks out of the station in a daze. The detective had asked him several more questions—she obviously has some suspicions—but Elezar has a rock solid alibi. He was away on an op for the past four months and only returned the day of the murder. The debriefing had ended late in the evening, by which time Elezar was so wound up from jet lag and restlessness that he’d been unable to sleep until an hour or so before Javier had so rudely awakened him.

“—sir? Captain Grunito?”

Elezar shifts his weight, settling into a combat-ready stance with the ease of long practice before he registers the person trying to catch his attention.

It’s the family’s butler, ten years older, surely, but largely unchanged. He looks a little shorter, but that’s only because Elezar hit a growth spurt when he was thirteen and didn’t stop growing until he was nearly eighteen.

“There is still a private wing set aside for the family, sir,” the butler says. “Lady Grunito ordered it prepared for you, should you require it. As well, there are several hotels available, should you prefer your privacy. We can also close the manor to visitors for the duration of your stay, though there is a wedding booked for this weekend.”

Elezar shakes his head to clear it, forcibly pushing thoughts of his brother’s murderer away. “The private wing will do, Neil, thank you.” He suppresses a grimace at how easily he falls back into the “cultured“ speech patterns of his upbringing. “And there’s no need to close the rest of the manor while I stay; I shouldn’t be here long, in any case.”

“Very good, sir.” Neil subtly directs him to a dark sedan parked nearby, frowning almost imperceptibly when Elezar only stows his luggage in the back before climbing into the passenger seat. He pulls onto the street without a word, though, and the ride to the manor passes in silence.

The grounds surrounding Elezar’s ancestral home are largely unchanged, but the same cannot be said for the interior. It is sterile and impersonal, a staged backdrop rather than a space where people actually live, but then, that is what the manor has become.

The private wing is a little better. The bed in Elezar’s room has been turned down, at least, just about the only sign of actual habitation that Elezar has seen since he arrived. He drops his gear at the foot of the bed and follows suit himself on the bed proper.

It doesn’t feel like home, but it hasn’t since Elezar’s eleventh birthday, and he’s used to sleeping in far worse places. He only gets as far as kicking off his shoes before he falls asleep.

* * *

Elezar wakes after midnight with a sour taste in his mouth and the niggling feeling that he’d had a dream. The harder he tries to grasp for details, however, the more swiftly they fade away. He staggers to his feet and into the attached bathroom, drinking tap water from his cupped palms before splashing more on his face.

He looks terrible, dark bags under his eyes, his facial hair more beard than stubble; he has no inclination to shave it now.

The moon provides enough light for him to spot his bag without tripping over it, and he locates his laptop’s hard case by feel alone. He detours to the window to tug the curtains shut then returns to the bed.

Kiram had crafted Elezar’s laptop from scratch. Elezar considers himself reasonably competent with technology, but Kiram’s explanations - to which Elezar had dutifully listened - about how the laptop has a secure and untraceable connection to the darkweb and other illicit resources had gone completely over his head.

Elezar is content to use it to browse the mundane internet without worrying. He starts by searching for the rest of his brother’s murderers; by the end of the hour, his usual frown is etched even more deeply into his face.

The man murdered in Elezar’s family home was the second to die, though the first to be labeled a murder. The first death—a heart attack two weeks earlier—had not been deemed suspicious.

The men aren’t as close knit as they were in university—hardly unusual, as people fall in and out of friendships often, and murder tends to either make or break the relationship between murderers—but the detective Elezar spoke to had seemed suspicious. Did she realize the two men were old friends? Does she think there is a link between their deaths?

For that matter, does Elezar? It could all be a coincidence.

He closes his laptop, shrouding the room in darkness once more, and tries to get some more sleep.

* * *

The grounds of the manor are vast, with plenty of the natural forest preserved, but even that is not unchanged. The dirt paths worn through the woods by generations past have been paved with asphalt, punctuated at various points with educational plaques: this rare plant is native to the region around Anacleto, that endangered species still roams the woods, the crumbling ruins you can see in the distance are remnants of a time before even the illustrious Grunito family had settled here.

A crude wooden railing brackets the path near the latter plaque to further deter curious hikers from examining the ruins. The sign warns that the crumbled remains are unsafe, but the manor isn’t open to the public at this hour. It’s barely past dawn, pale morning light just beginning to filter through the leaves.

Elezar doesn’t hesitate to hop over the railing, following the old path - half-obscured by the forest’s growth, without the Grunito brood to keep it clear on their way to their favourite hiding place - through the trees out to the ruins.

The crumbling stone structure looks just the same, unlike the rest of his former home. Elezar had always claimed it was once a castle, but Isandro insisted it was merely an old house. It is impossible to tell now, with only the corner made up by two unstable walls. Timoteo had researched it once, but their own library had nothing on the subject and neither did any of Anacleto's public libraries.

Elezar kicks at a fallen stone, relishing the dull throb of pain that follows, and forces himself to keep his stride even as he rounds the outer wall.

The corner is empty, of course.

Elezar lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and perches awkwardly on a section of wall that’s mostly flat.

If there had been any blood left behind, time and the elements have washed it away. Humans aren’t made to last, not like the structures they leave behind as their monuments, deliberately or not. Elezar has no idea who used to live here - if this structure was even built for that purpose - and in a hundred years, he doubts anyone will remember that Isandro was murdered on this very spot.

Isandro had been friends with the two men who died within the past month. He’d invited them to his home for Elezar’s eleventh birthday, and they used Elezar to lure him out so they could torture and kill him and all Elezar could do was watch.

The forest is far from silent: the leaves and branches rustle in the breeze, a songbird trills from somewhere nearby, and a plane even passes overhead at one point. But there is something peaceful about sitting alone among the trees, with no one around to hear Elezar’s harsh breathing or see his wet cheeks.

The sun has fully risen when Elezar finally lifts his head, the pleasant cool of morning already beginning to fade. He glances back at the corner, where they’d left Isandro’s broken body—

2 DOWN, reads the message scrawled in red across ancient stone, ROUTAIN NEXT

Elezar stares for one—two—three stunned seconds before he bursts into motion. The stone is cool and smooth beneath his hand; the number smears tackily under his fingers. He’d recognize the smell of blood anywhere.

When he lifts his eyes from the red staining his fingertips, the ominous message is gone, and then his hand is clean again too.

Magic is very much real, no matter how the Cadeleon government tries to deny that fundamental fact or oppress its users. The only thing the Cadeleonian stance on magic reliably accomplishes is leaving its own citizens woefully ignorant and dangerously prejudiced; Elezar has no idea what kind of magic could have left that message, but he doesn’t feel compelled to run to the nearest authority and report it as any good Cadeleonian knows they ought to.

Assuming it even happened. Elezar’s thumb rubs absently over the tips of his fingers, an unconscious search for the tacky smear of blood that his mind insists was there just moments ago, though all of his senses indicate that there’s nothing now.

His shoulder twitches but he represses the urge to shiver. The sun doesn’t feel so warm any more. Elezar turns away and heads back for the path.

The bloody words were a hallucination, perhaps; a good Cadeleonian might dismiss the incident as just that.

But Elezar’s seen enough magic in foreign lands to know better.

* * *

Guilfort Routain is a respected lawyer, a partner at a private firm in downtown Anacleto. He lives with his wife in a gated community in the suburbs. No kids, but Mrs. Routain wants them. Mr. Routain, Elezar isn’t sure about. They compromise with an assortment of pets and plenty of time apart: Routain works long hours almost every day of the week.

Elezar knows all of this already, has kept obsessive track of the formerly close-knit group of friends since his guilt and sorrow transformed into a soul-deep anger. They were always going to die, Elezar just needed the means to do it without getting caught himself. He’d had no intention of leaving loose ends, like they had.

He stakes out Routain’s house for a few days, but nothing in particular stands out about the place. There are no signs of whoever or whatever left the message at the ruins. Kiram hacks the law firm’s database, which is also a dead end, although Elezar is vague about what Kiram should look for.

Kiram doesn’t appreciate the secrecy, and he isn’t afraid to let Elezar know it, but Elezar remains unmoved. Javier’s the only one Elezar ever told about that day, and that isn’t about to change.

No further messages appear during the four days Elezar tracks Routain, and he’s on the verge of returning to the manor when the massive dog that prowls the yard aggressively starts barking from close by. Elezar flinches, his hand moving instinctively for the dagger he brings with him just about everywhere.

The dog is another one of the strange compromises made by the Routains: Mrs. Routain prefers cute animals while Mr. Routain values utility over beauty.

The bright orange chow chow’s cuteness is debatable, but its sheer size makes it look well-suited to guarding the house. The dog is rather poorly trained though, barking at anything and everything that catches its attention: passing cars, an intrepid squirrel, any pedestrians regardless of what side of the street they’re on. No one besides the Routains has gotten close to it, so it’s even odds whether the chow chow has a bite to back up its bark.

Elezar glances over to see what the dog’s problem is and pauses. The dog is standing at the fence right across the street from him, staring straight at him and barking at even intervals, none of that incessant howling it makes whenever an interloper passes too close to its territory. Its previous behaviour had struck Elezar as a bit dim, completely at odds with the keen intelligence in the dog’s eyes now.

The dog jerks its head impatiently, as if to say _follow me_.

Elezar stares.

The dog barks once more. A car drives between them, momentarily blocking the dog from view, but the animal doesn’t budge and is still staring intently at him when the car goes past.

Elezar glances up and down the street, but it’s a rather quiet area and there’s no one else around.

The dog barks again, louder, then turns and trots away.

Elezar shakes his head and starts the car, casting one last glance in the mirror. The dog is back at the fence, watching, until Elezar turns the corner and the dog passes out of sight.

* * *

He parks the car in the manor’s private garage and then just—sits there, breathing. What is he doing? What is going on?

The radio of his rented car suddenly crackles to life.

The car isn’t even running but static hisses loudly from the speakers anyway, as if the radio is caught between stations. Elezar flinches as the sound spikes to a sudden high pitch, but it lowers to a more manageable level a second later. The static continues to fluctuate, rising and falling at unpredictable moments, but with a cadence that is almost recognizable. Like if Elezar could only adjust the frequency, the staticky sounds would resolve into words he could understand.

Elezar fumbles for the key, turns it in the ignition; the static cuts out as soon as the engine starts again, replaced by the white noise of a disc jockey rambling about something or other.

“Fuck,” Elezar mutters, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to the steering wheel. His heart pounds hard in his ears, nearly drowning out the latest hit now playing on the radio.

He flinches upright at the sound of something hitting the windshield—not hard enough to crack or shatter the glass, or to break whatever had been used to make the noise in the first place. More like—a hand slapping against the window.

DEREZ IS NEXT

The words are written in the same messy, bloody hand as the ones back at the ruins, recognizable even oriented backwards as they are. Whoever had written it had done so from the outside; Elezar’s finger leaves a greasy smear on the inside of the glass, but the ominous message is untouched.

He stares unblinking at the letters, knowing that the second he looks away, the message will disappear.

“Isandro?” Elezar whispers, in the last second before his watering eyes blink of their own accord, muscle memory that Elezar cannot control.

The words are gone when Elezar opens his eyes again, and he’s left feeling profoundly alone.

* * *

He remembers to turn the car off at some point, before he can suffocate himself on exhaust fumes, then stays up all night refreshing the local news site until the article he’s both dreading and anticipating appears on the front page.

MAN FOUND DEAD IN GATED COMMUNITY

There’s no picture of Routain, but there is a photo of his home with several police vehicles and an officer visible in front of it.

Elezar scans the article, squinting at the bright screen of his laptop in the darkness. Routain was found dead in his pool by his wife, less than an hour after Elezar drove away. For a split second, the image flashes behind his eyes, as visceral and clear as if Elezar had followed the damn dog and seen Routain’s floating body himself, the blood from his slit throat spreading like ink through the chlorinated water.

The article hadn’t said anything about the cause of Routain’s death.

Elezar slams his laptop shut, sparing a moment to silently apologize to Kiram for mishandling his tech, and rubs a hand over his eyes, wiping away the cold sweat that had suddenly sprung up at his temples.

* * *

“Do you know what time it is?” Javier groans when he answers the phone on the fourth ring.

“Three thirty-six,” Elezar says. There’s something satisfying about knowing he disturbed Javier’s rest: maybe this is why Javier enjoys calling him at all hours of the morning whenever he can think up the flimsiest excuse. “If I wake Kiram up, please apologize for me.”

Javier pauses in the middle of an extremely rude response: that was their code for asking if the line is secure. “We’re good,” Javier says briskly, any lingering sleepiness or discontent gone. “What is it?”

Elezar tells him.

Javier whistles, obnoxiously impressed, when Elezar’s done. “Damn. I didn’t realize the guy that was murdered in your family home was one of them. I would’ve warned you, at least.”

“I know,” Elezar says. It was a shock, to put it mildly, but while he and Javier might prank each other (far too often, as Kiram often told them) they don’t actively try to hurt one another.

“What was he even doing at the manor?”

“He was a wedding guest, I think.” The detective told him, but Elezar wasn’t really been listening.

“Classic mistake,” Javier says flippantly. “You should never revisit the scene of the crime.”

Elezar snorts in spite of himself. “Thank you, Poirot. But I meant to ask: Does this sound like a vengeful spirit?” _Could it be Isandro_? he doesn’t say.

“No,” Javier says immediately. “The MO is different each time. Vengeful spirits recreate their own deaths, usually; and they always kill the same way.”

Elezar closes his eyes. There are other types of restless dead. He wants, badly, for this to be his oldest brother, but at the same time he hopes it isn’t. He hopes Isandro found peace, after.

“You’re sure it’s not just a regular killer? No, it can’t be. The blood messages,” Javier mutters, more to himself than Elezar.

“I think whoever—or whatever—this is can control animals too.”

“That’s fairly basic magic, for most branches of study,” Javier says dismissively. “Should I come out there?”

“No. Not yet,” Elezar amends. “I don’t think I’m a target, and you might scare the witch off.”

“They might not be a witch. They could be a Bahiim.”

“Wouldn’t their powers be similar to yours, then?” Elezar retorts; Javier’s just being pedantic at this point. Elezar knows his tone well enough to tell, even if he doesn’t have any real knowledge of magic.

“I could write messages in blood if I wanted to,” Javier says, the pout audible enough for Elezar to picture it perfectly.

“And make them disappear afterward?”

Javier mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath. “How do you feel about this?” he asks, in a more normal register.

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“Obviously.” Now he’s rolling his eyes. “I mean, how do you feel about this magic user of unknown origin and school taking your revenge from you?”

Elezar doesn’t know. He hadn’t thought about it—had half-convinced himself that it all was a coincidence, that he’d imagined the blood. He’s killed before, in service to his country; he’d beaten up a group of bullies that had made Nestor their latest target, not long after he entered Sagrada; he’d fully intended to murder every single one of the men responsible for Isandro’s death, and he’d meant to get away with it too.

And now someone else is killing them instead.

“At least this way I can truthfully say I had nothing to do with it.”

* * *

Elezar curses himself for the worst kind of fool not twenty-four hours later, careful to keep his face blank beneath the detective’s suspicious gaze. He just had to tempt fate with such a bold declaration, didn’t he?

He’d only meant to check up on Derez; he hadn’t considered that the witch might have struck again. Routain was only killed the day before, after all—but the time between murders is growing shorter, obviously, because when Elezar (stupidly) went to take a look around his home, he’d found the door ajar and entered the house only to find Derez dangling from a noose.

That was when the police had arrived, naturally. Elezar doesn’t know how they knew—was it the witch’s doing? Did they intend to frame Elezar? If the connection between the victims came out, he’d be an obvious suspect for at least two of them, unbreakable alibis for the first three notwithstanding.

The uniformed police officer finishes patting Elezar down and holds up the knife.

The detective narrows her eyes as she looks from the knife and back to Elezar. “Where were you between the hours of seven and ten yesterday night?”

Shit. Elezar tries to keep his expression calm. “I went out for a drive. I haven’t been back in Anacleto for years and I wanted to see what had changed.”

“And where did that drive take you?”

“All over—you know how much downtown Anacleto has changed in ten years? I almost can’t believe it. Oh, I checked out some of the newer housing developments too. It’s interesting to see how the style of homes change.” God, he has to shut up. Elezar bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep from babbling on even more suspiciously, or doing something equally stupid like offering the detective an unconvincingly disarming smile.

New cars can be tracked through manufacturer-installed GPS now, can’t they? Kiram would know, and probably be able to do something about hiding Elezar’s exact whereabouts, although that would involve explaining to Kiram what’s going on, and Elezar—can’t, doesn’t want to, won’t tell anyone about what happened to Isandro. Only Javier knows the truth of that day.

“Guilfort Routain was found murdered at his home last night. His throat was slit. I’ll need to take that blade for evidence,” the detective says.

“I didn’t kill him, or Derez,” Elezar says.

The detective studies him in silence for several moments. “Time will tell. For now, please remain in the city. You’re a person of interest in these cases.”

* * *

“But you didn’t actually kill either of them, correct?” Kiram asks, after Elezar escapes the detective’s suspicious stare and works up the nerve to call him.

Kiram has a strange sense of morality, though Elezar’s not one to judge; not for the first time, Elezar wonders how Kiram came into their line of work. He disapproves of violence and disdains Cadeleonian nationalism, both of which are key components in their daily life. At least Kiram’s position in tech development means he doesn’t often see the field. He doesn’t mete out the violence, he just arms people like Javier and Elezar with the means to do it themselves, and judges them when they act beyond his unfathomable internal code.

“I didn’t.” Elezar doesn’t add that he would have, given the opportunity, if he’d known he could get away with it.

“You wouldn’t be sloppy enough to park in front of one man’s home for hours, and get caught with the other’s body, anyway,” Kiram says absently; Elezar can hear the sound of Kiram typing on a keyboard in the background. It’s almost soothing, if not for the alarming speed.

“Thanks,” Elezar says, dry.

“You’re welcome. And, I’m done. Try not to be so incompetent next time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Elezar tucks his phone into his pocket and heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

SORRY is scrawled across the mirror in blood.

Elezar rubs a hand over his eyes, abruptly exhausted. The mirror is clean when Elezar looks again, with only his haunted expression staring back at him.

* * *

The journey to the ruins is becoming familiar again. Elezar wonders, idly, how long it would take for his passage to trample the undergrowth back from the long-neglected track off the main path—but he’s always careful to avoid disturbing the plants that have appeared in the decade since his brother’s murder; perhaps no one will be able to tell, once he leaves again.

Four down, two to go. Elezar should just stay clear of this; if the detective digs deeply enough, she might very well realize that Elezar is a very convincing suspect, even if the ghost hadn’t meant to implicate him. Assuming the ghost stalking Elezar can be believed or trusted. He wants to believe that it’s Isandro, but his brother had never struck Elezar as the vengeful type. Timoteo and Nestor are similar to Isandro in that regard; for the rest of their siblings, it’s too early to say. As far as he knows, Elezar is the only one of them who harbours serious intentions towards avenging his brother.

Then again, he’s also the only one who knows what happened that day, and the identities of the men behind it. The anger and grief of witnessing the murder changed him; he can’t imagine what actually experiencing it might do to a person.

His thoughts grind to a halt when he rounds the crumbling walls. The dog is curled up in the corner; Elezar mistakes its mass of fluffy orange fur for some kind of weird plant before the dog’s ears perk up. It bounds to its feet a moment later, tail wagging madly, and just about bowls Elezar over when it runs to him, tongue lolling happily as it bounces around like one of the lapdogs his mother keeps.

Elezar flinches when it licks at his fingers, but the dog looks so sorrowful that he relents and scratches behind its ears. It doesn’t seem to have any inclination to attack him, and when Elezar crouches to scratch it below the chin, the dog tries to clamber into his lap and does actually knock him over.

“Okay, okay!” Elezar feels a smile stretch his lips, the first genuine one he can remember in—weeks, probably. It’s strange, how comfortable he is with this probably-possessed dog stalking him, but it’s so enthusiastically happy to see him that Elezar can’t muster the proper suspicion.

The dog licks him one last time, chin to temple, and settles back on its haunches, radiating a smugness that no natural dog could possibly possess.

“No more bloody notes for me?” Elezar asks, pushing himself into sitting position. The chow chow is a big dog, and they’re just about eye to eye like this.

The dog whines.

“So you aren’t the one leaving them?”

A head shake.

“You _did_ leave those messages?” Elezar presses.

A nod.

“Can you make one now? It would be easier for us to communicate.”

Another head shake.

Elezar almost demands to know why, but with the dog’s limited ability to communicate, it would be a waste of breath anyway. There’s probably some kind of esoteric magical explanation that Elezar lacks the capacity to understand, even if the dog could use words.

“You’re not Isandro, are you?” he says instead.

The dog shakes its head a third time, somehow managing to look apologetic.

“Do I know you?”

Also no.

“But you want to avenge Isandro too,” Elezar says, low, even though there’s no one else around to hear.

The dog barks once, a sharp affirmative, then nods again for good measure.

“All right. Can I help?”

The dog looks at him; surprised, maybe.

“I don’t have magic—” that much should have been obvious, “—but I have other skills.”

The dog rushes him again, enthusiastically licking at the hand Elezar raises to ward it off from his face.

“All right, all right!” Elezar repeats, inappropriate laughter threatening to escape him. Should he really be this happy at the thought of committing murder? Probably not, but he’s been fucked up for a long time. “So, who’s next? Vigaro? Garcia?”

The dog barks twice.

“Garcia?”

Frantic nodding greets the name.

“Try not to frame me for the murder, this time?”

The dog hangs its head, looking so forlorn that Elezar has to reach out and pet it again, until the dog’s tail is wagging so hard it looks liable to fall over.

* * *

Considering its conspicuous orange coat and massive size, the dog is surprisingly adept at sneaking around. Then again, it has the advantage of magic. Elezar doesn’t dwell on that too long; he’s just grateful that no one noticed it following him into the manor proper. He can only imagine what the detective would say if she found out he had Routain’s dog with him.

“Can you type?” Elezar asks doubtfully, offering the dog his laptop.

That earns him a look; they almost don’t need words to communicate, if the dog continues expressing itself so clearly.

“Right,” Elezar mutters. “Do you have a plan for Garcia?”

The dog whines, ducking its head.

“He’ll be difficult to get to,” Elezar agrees. Whenever Elezar allowed himself to consider the logistics of murdering six men, Garcia and Vigaro always gave him trouble. Garcia has links to organized crime, which brings complications of its own, and Vigaro is a contractor employed by what Elezar suspects is a front for the Cadeleonian government. Garcia lives in an apartment building owned by the organization that employs him, and Vigaro spends most of his time in a secure research facility half an hour outside Anacleto. Infiltrating either of those places has the potential to get messy fast.

It isn’t that Elezar is precisely opposed to collateral damage, but he does try to avoid unnecessary casualties whenever possible.

“Things could go south fast,” Elezar says. “I assume you’re aware of Garcia’s ties to the mob. He won’t be anywhere near as easy to access as the others.”

The dog shrugs, then hops up onto the bed and makes itself comfortable: the very picture of unconcern.

“People could die. Besides Garcia,” Elezar tries again, just to be sure, because the witch has so far stuck strictly to their targets as well.

The dog only yawns, showing all of its teeth, and settles back down again.

“The people around Garcia are most likely criminals,” Elezar acknowledges, though considering what he does for a living, he hasn’t got a leg to stand on himself: state-sanctioned murder is still murder, and he isn’t one of those men who deludes himself otherwise. He knows exactly what sort of monster he is.

All he gets in reply is a low bark; Elezar takes it as agreement and opens his laptop again. Garcia acts as the respectable public face for the gang, so while there is plenty of information about him in the public domain, it’s difficult to tell how much of it is actually true; but it’s a place to start, at any rate.

Elezar twitches in surprise when the dog settles in at his side, but obligingly shifts over to allow it to read the screen as well.

* * *

Of course, without even his knife (thank you so much, detective), eliminating Garcia or anyone else will be—difficult, to say the least. Elezar prefers not to travel with anything more deadly, though he has several stashes of various firearms and other weaponry back home; he just hadn’t considered that he would actually need a gun or three when all he intended to do was represent his family in the wake of the first murder.

“I know I’ve showed you how to procure your own equipment before,” Kiram says, managing to sound both judgmental and long-suffering at the same time. He probably perfected it from living with Javier; Elezar is a delight to work with, and they both know it. Or at least Elezar does.

“You also know I’m hopeless with this kind of thing.”

“I’ve met children who are more adept at utilizing the resources available through the dark web than you,” Kiram agrees.

“Yeah, but there can’t have been a lot of them, right? You can’t compare me to child geniuses,” Elezar insists, pushing the dog’s curious head away from his face.

“ _He’s useless with magic too_!” Javier adds helpfully in the background.

“Don’t you have a job—?!”

“Don’t shout in my ear,” Kiram says evenly.

“Sorry. Doesn’t he have a job?” Elezar says, in a closer approximation of his indoor voice.

“ _Well, I was trying to suck Kiram’s_ —”

“What have I said about bragging about your sexual escapades?” Kiram asks mildly.

“... _Not to do it_?” It’s a little hard to tell whether Javier’s uncertainty is feigned or genuine; equal odds either way, with him. He can be damn clueless sometimes.

Elezar coughs out a laugh; it’s better than focusing on the flare of arousal that the thought of Javier sucking Kiram’s cock prompted. He’s long made his peace with his infatuation with Javier, but Kiram’s arrival on the scene manages to bring it all back at rather unfortunate times, though those instances always seem to be Javier’s fault, not Kiram’s.

“I’ve arranged it.” Kiram’s calm voice breaks into his thoughts, a welcome distraction from Elezar’s doomed infatuation. “Meet my brother at the eastern Kir-Zaki warehouse tonight at eight.”

“Wait, your brother?” Elezar stares blankly at the wall opposite the bed; the dog takes the opportunity to slip out from under his hand and shoves its head up against the back of Elezar’s phone; he barely notices. Elezar had known Kiram was from Anacleto too, but nothing more than that. He hadn’t even known Kiram had any siblings.

“If you expect me to explain, I’d suggest you reconsider,” Kiram says. “Javier assures me that this is important to you, but he refuses to tell me what’s going on; you’re mistaken if you think I intend to confide in you when you’ve done nothing of the sort for me.”

Elezar winces at the cool tone of Kiram’s voice. He hasn’t heard it directed at him since the early days of Kiram and Javier’s—courtship? dalliance? relationship?—and he’d forgotten the shame it can invoke in him. It’s worse because Kiram’s right: Elezar does him an explanation.

“I haven’t—told anyone except Javier. About this. But I will tell you, Kiram, once this is taken care of, I swear it.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Kiram’s voice is back to normal, so the promise mollified him some. Thankfully. “And—I do know you wouldn’t ask for my help lightly. I’m sure you have your reasons, and I might even agree with them once you tell me what they are. If you need me or Javier to come out there, don’t hesitate to tell us.”

Elezar nods, not that Kiram can see it, then clears his throat. “Thanks,” he says, a bit thickly, and ends the call.

The dog noses at Elezar’s limp hand until he gives in and scratches it behind the ears. There’s something soothing about running his fingers through the dog’s thick fur, and Elezar focuses on that.

“You have a way in?” he asks at length, when his eyes have stopped stinging.

The dog nods, gently enough that it doesn’t dislodge his hand, content to just sit with Elezar for the time being.

* * *

He’s more careful doing recon around Garcia’s residence. He’s tall and broad enough that people mark him without thinking about it, but there are ways to mitigate that. He softens his posture, to make himself seem smaller, and changes his gait. Most people don’t pay too much mind to their surroundings, as long as there’s nothing glaringly out of place to draw their attention.

It took Elezar a while to convince the dog to stay back at the manor. He’d tried to shut it in his room, but it had started barking as soon as he closed the door. It stopped as soon as he let it out, shadowing him silently as he made his way through the unfamiliar halls of his childhood home; it always managed to hide whenever an employee or visitor appeared, which helped assuage Elezar’s worries about getting inside Garcia’s apartment, at least.

But then it stood expectantly in front of the driver’s door when Elezar reached the garage, like it thought he was going to take it along.

Elezar still feels bad about telling the dog no, which is ridiculous. A man walking a dog is one thing, if that dog isn’t massive, fluffy and orange. Elezar’s distinctive enough as it is, without the dog to draw further attention to himself; there’s no way he could bring it along with him.

There are a lot of security cams around the building, but the number isn’t that unusual. Highrises like this are catered to the rich, and they tend to like their privacy. Elezar glances in the lobby when people go in or out, but doesn’t enter himself; the building has a website with pictures of the lobby and public areas, lists of amenities and floor plans of the various apartments: it’s a legitimate residence, with at least some of the tenants unaware of the owners’ true nature.

Kiram can hack the building’s security system, but Elezar is still reluctant to involve him further without telling him any other details. Although the fact that Elezar’s going after a fairly notorious gang would probably smooth the way...

He heads back to the parkade where he stashed his car, options running through his mind. The dog claimed it could get them inside, but magic and technology interact strangely. It would probably be smarter to bring Kiram up to speed, especially since he’s a known quantity. Elezar can grasp Kiram’s capabilities, even if he doesn’t know the full scope of them. The dog’s magical ability is a mystery, beyond the fact that it can, apparently, murder four men in a variety of creative ways.

It’s not as if Elezar really knows what Javier is capable of either. The white hell, as their superiors so charmingly refer to it, when they choose to acknowledge the magical thing that they bound to Javier at all, is a vast reservoir of power that follows rules Elezar finds largely incomprehensible. It can open paths beyond this world, conjure what amounts to a glorified light show, and just about everything else in between.

His phone buzzes with an incoming text on the way back to the manor, but it’s closer to the designated pick up time than he wanted so he doesn’t stop to check it.

The dog is waiting for him on the side of the road that leads to the manor. One second, he’s driving past an unremarkable stretch of greenery and the next there’s the conspicuous orange chow chow on the side of the road, fairly glowing in the headlights. Elezar pulls over and leans across the console to open the passenger door. The dog barks happily and bounds in, somehow managing to close the door behind itself.

Elezar shakes his head and pulls out his phone. The message is from an unfamiliar number, programmed into his contacts only as ’K’. Kiram’s doing, obviously.

_New op, total blackout. Est. timeline one week._

Well, that solves Elezar’s problem, in a manner of speaking: he won’t have Javier or Kiram to rely on for the hit on Garcia, but at least he has a magical dog.

Elezar immediately reaches out to pet the dog, feeling bad for even thinking such an unkind thing. The dog has done far more to avenge Isandro than Elezar ever did.

The dog gives a strangely distorted bark, then leans forward and drops something on the console between them: the knife confiscated by the police the day before. It straightens up, chest puffed out, mouth curled in a proud smirk—inasmuch as a dog is capable of such an expression.

“How did you,” Elezar starts blankly, looking from the knife to the dog and back again.

The dog cocks its head, the picture of innocence.

“Did anyone see you?” Elezar asks instead; obviously, the answer to his first question is _magic dog_.

That earns him an affronted look.

“Right.” That does inspire more confidence in the dog’s ability to help Elezar get to Garcia without being spotted, actually. Elezar gives himself a mental shake. “We should get going then.”

* * *

Despite the late hour, the streets of Anacleto are still fairly busy, though foot and street traffic die down the nearer Elezar comes to the docks. The designated meeting place is deserted, the front door locked when Elezar tries it. He stares at the Kir-Zaki logo printed a little below eye-level, the brightly stylized candy incongruous with Elezar’s purpose.

Obviously, just about any enterprise can be a front for criminal activity—and often the most unassuming or pious causes harbour the most reprehensible crimes: orphanages trafficking babies, and so on—but candy, really? Kiram never struck Elezar as someone with a sweet tooth, so why would he have dealings with—

Elezar stops, narrowing his eyes at the innocent logo. When Kiram was first assigned to support their team, one of the other guys had jokingly asked if Kiram was related to the Kir-Zakis that owned the eponymous candy company, but Kiram had just brushed him off with some scathing remark that Kir-Zaki was a common Haldiim name.

Elezar pulls out his phone, intending to give Kiram a piece of his mind for not mentioning that, actually, he is a member of _the_ Kir-Zaki family, before he remembers about the mission. The one that Javier’s on without Elezar there for back up. It’s not that Elezar doesn’t trust the rest of their team except for the part that, well, it kind of is. Atreau and Kiram are the only ones Elezar would really count on.

The dog, sitting faithfully at his side, suddenly stiffens, ears pricked—then bounds away around the corner.

Elezar bites back a curse, stuffing his phone in his pocket before following at a more cautious pace, though the alleyway is as empty as the streetfront. The dog waits patiently in front of a side door, tongue lolling.

This door is unlocked, and Elezar enters cautiously, one hand curled in the dog’s thick ruff as it leads him into the building. It takes him to the main storage area, lit at distant intervals with security lights that only serve to make deeper shadows in the rest of the room.

“Kiram said you’d be on time.” A man steps out from behind a stack of crates, his silhouette visible against the nearest pool of light. He’s heavier set than Kiram; whether they bear a closer resemblance than that, Elezar can’t tell. “He didn’t mention the puppy, though.”

The dog barks once, the sharp sound echoing around the large room.

The man comes closer, stepping into the light. He does look a bit like Kiram. “This is pretty irregular. I mean, he knows I smuggle on the side, and I know he’s not actually a software engineer, but he’s never asked me to procure anything like this for him before.”

Elezar eyes the other man carefully, tightening his grip in the dog’s fur. He can feels its tension, and the sub-vocal growl rumbling in its chest; it doesn’t seem to trust the man. Elezar is on the fence himself: he trusts Kiram with his life, but that’s in the context of their jobs. This is rather beyond that.

“You must be Javier’s friend. Alex, was it?”

“Elezar,” he says curtly. Has Javier met Kiram’s family already? Elezar honestly doesn’t know, but it’s not really his business either.

Kiram’s brother smiles, but doesn’t offer his name. “That’s right. Elezar Grunito. Of the old aristocratic family that used to own this city.”

Elezar narrows his eyes. Besides the obviously full duffel bag in his hand, the man doesn’t look armed, but his clothes are loose enough that they could conceal any kind of small firearm or blade.

“But that’s all ancient history, isn’t it?” The smile remains fixed on the man’s face. “Whatever. Not my business. Kiram wired me the money already, and he’d have my balls if I tried to swindle you, so come over and take a look.” He tosses the bag on the ground between them, plastic and metal clattering against concrete.

“Stay,” Elezar tells the dog, and steps closer to open the bag. There’s a civilian grade version of his usual uniform, all in dark shades of grey or black. The bullet-proof vest is virtually identical to the one Elezar wears on his usual missions, actually. He raises his eyebrows and sets the clothing aside; the rest of the gear inside the bag is what Elezar prefers: a good selection of blades and sheathes that Elezar can hide on his person, two semi-automatic pistols and one of the high-calibre rifles that Elezar uses when diplomacy is deemed useless.

It happens more often than he’d like, but about as often as he expects. Cadeleon doesn’t compromise unless forced to do so.

The man sighs impatiently when Elezar disassembles one of the pistols, checking the frame and barrel and action before reassembling it just as quickly.

“This looks good,” Elezar says, after stowing everything back in the duffel and zipping it up again.

“Should be. I don’t usually deal in this sort of thing, but I’ve got a guy I can trust who knows about this shit.”

Elezar can’t help the disbelieving look that settles on his face. A smuggler that doesn’t know his way around guns?

The man just laughs. “Javier gave me that exact same look when I told him as much too.”

* * *

They hit Garcia later that night. Elezar had lifted a key fob from one of the residents that afternoon, and he uses it to get them through the door. Garcia’s apartment is near the top, which limits the avenues of escape if things go south, but they make it to his floor without a hitch.

There are only two apartments on this floor, and no security cameras in the corridor. The elevator had one, but the dark cap pulled low over his face should be enough to hide his identity if anyone thinks to check the CCTV. Elezar frowns when he reaches the door: he could probably kick it in, but that would make a lot of noise. He’s decent with lockpicks, except for the part where the lock is electronic. It’s not particularly high tech, though; Kiram could hack it in seconds, and could talk him through hacking it himself in a matter of minutes, but Kiram isn’t available.

“Can you open that?” Elezar asks quietly, glancing down at the dog.

It nods once, trotting over to the door. It nudges at the handle with its nose, but nothing in particular happens: no flash of magic or any sounds that might indicate the dog reciting a spell. Which is ridiculous, clearly; if the dog could talk, it surely would have done so before.

Elezar exhales when he hears the lock click open a few seconds later, checks that the silencer is securely attached to his gun, and slips inside with the dog at his heels.

The floorplan available online is different than the actual layout of Garcia’s suite; Elezar halts in the doorway, thrown off. He should have pulled up the building plans but asking a city official to find them for him would have left a trail, and—

The dog gives a low growl, the threatening sound filling the otherwise silent apartment, and tears off down the hallway. Its paws make no sound on the hardwood floor, despite its bulk.

A burst of deep barking echoes from further in the apartment; Elezar instinctively knows that it’s not from his dog, but he has no time to investigate: a figure suddenly moves out of the shadows beside him.

Later, Elezar will both lament and be glad of the fact that neither Kiram nor Javier were present: Garcia manages to knock the gun out of Elezar’s hand, but as they grapple down the hallway, it quickly becomes obvious that Garcia has little practical martial training. He probably works out a few days a week, but he hasn’t honed his body into a weapon the way Elezar has; that he was able to disarm Elezar is frankly embarrassing.

Garcia grunts when Elezar knocks him into the marble countertop and scrambles around the island to put some space between them.

The entryway was dark, but Garcia left the lights on in rest of the apartment; Garcia’s bloodshot eyes widen when he gets a good look at Elezar’s face.

“Fuck, you’re—Juan didn’t say—”

Elezar bares his teeth in a feral excuse for a smile and vaults the island in a single smooth motion. Garcia tries to dodge, but Elezar’s foot connects solidly with his chest; the back of his head cracks loudly against the cupboards and he collapses bonelessly to the floor.

The sound of fighting penetrates the haze of battlelust; Elezar casts a glance at Garcia’s prone form then hurries into the main living area.

The dog’s— _his_ dog’s—muzzle is stained with blood; there’s blood all over its body and tufts of fur missing from its coat, but his dog’s fared better than its two opponents. One of the dark, barrel-chested guard dogs is already down; the second is limping, teeth bared but clearly on its last legs.

Before Elezar can consider intervening, his dog is upon the other, teeth sinking into the vulnerable flesh of its throat. The black dog collapses with a strangled yelp.

The dog turns to Elezar, tongue lolling in a canine version of a grin; in the silence, Elezar hears the familiar click of a gun cocking.

Shit. If he survives this, he is definitely not telling Javier about any of the rookie mistakes he made.

Garcia has dragged himself into the hall, to Elezar’s fallen gun; his face is twisted in crazed desperation, and his hand wavers as he points the gun at Elezar, who doesn’t dare trust that Garcia will miss.

“We should’ve killed you with your heathen brother,” Garcia snarls, and pulls the trigger.

The dog jumps between them, slamming bodily into Garcia and thrashing around enough that he can’t line up another shot. Elezar closes the distance between them in two swift steps, stamping hard on Garcia’s hand and snatching up the gun as the other man howls in pain.

The cry cuts off abruptly as the dog rips out Garcia’s throat.

Elezar kneels at the dog’s side, heedless of the raw choking sounds Garcia makes as he dies, his hands fluttering with uncharacteristic hesitation over the dog’s body: he doesn’t want to lay a hand on one of its injuries.

“Shit,” Elezar whispers, when he sees the blood pouring steadily from its chest: the bullet had found its mark after all. “Are you—Fuck. I know you’re not all right, but—” He applies pressure instinctively, his gloves slipping in the blood. The dog whimpers, its tail thumping weakly against the floor.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve just snapped his neck,” Elezar says, but he—he wanted it to be slow. Garcia and the rest certainly hadn’t made Isandro’s death quick.

With effort, the dog lifts its head and licks at Elezar’s hand; its tail wags once more and falls still.

xx

Elezar cleans up mechanically, taking out the handful of guards that come to investigate the disturbance with blank efficiency, his body going through familiar motions without conscious input from his mind. The car’s radio spits static the whole way home, but it suits his mood and he makes it back to the manor without further incident.

He climbs into the shower, turning the water on hot enough to scald; he barely feels it.

Dimly, he’s aware that his reaction is ridiculous. He didn’t kill anyone today, and even if he had, it would hardly be the first time. It isn’t even the first time he’s lost a—a teammate? A comrade? Is he really this torn up over a dog?

The mirror is completely fogged up when he steps back out of the shower. Elezar stares at his hazy, indistinct reflection through the lingering steam, his mind blank.

ELEZAR

His name appears fully formed, the blood streaking in the condensation on the mirror.

“Dog? I mean, uh,” Elezar fumbles.

I’M SKELLAN AKA THAT HANDSOME DOG

“Right. I’m Elezar, but you—already knew that.”

I DID BUT IT’S NICE TO BE FORMALLY INTRODUCED

Elezar stares at the words, inexplicably relieved and yet still weighed down by absurd grief for the dog that he’d known for all of two days.

“Can you... I mean, you sent me a vision, before. With Routain. Can you show me what you look like?” He’s not sure why it’s important, but maybe if he knows what Skellan looks like, he can get the image of the dying dog out of his head. The dog was Skellan, but Skellan is still here and Elezar just needs to separate the two in his mind.

Instead of replying with words, Skellan’s answer is a rush of impressions: bright green eyes, vivid red hair, long fingers gone pale from lack of sunlight. A single flash of a young face.

“How old—you’re not a child, are you?” Elezar demands.

NO comes immediately. JUST HAVEN’T SEEN MYSELF IN YEARS

“Why not?” But Elezar already has his own suspicions. A witch with enough power to kill four—five, counting Garcia—men, all without being physically present would be of great interest to Cadeleon. They’re exactly the sort of person the government would want hidden from the public, to preserve the illusion that magic doesn’t exist, while their agents worked behind the scenes to see if the witch could be of any use.

NO MIRRORS IN MY CELL, confirms what Elezar had thought. SAME FACILITY WHERE VIGARO WORKS

“God,” Elezar mutters, his fists clenching with the sudden impulse to inflict violence on the bastards that have kept Skellan imprisoned for years, unable to even see his own reflection.

20 NOW I THINK, Skellan continues. 21 MAYBE

There’s a pause, the blood fading away before Elezar’s eyes as he simply stands there, processing. The child in the vision was, at the oldest, an underfed twelve. That's almost a decade of confinement, and probably more. Elezar breathes slowly, trying to rein in his anger.

ALL RIGHT ELEZAR?

Elezar bites back an inappropriate laugh. He should be the one asking Skellan that. He almost wishes Skellan was still possessing the dog, able to communicate feelings and basic answers but not such complex ideas as indefinite imprisonment.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m going to get you out of there, Skellan.”

I WAS COUNTING ON IT MY MAN

“But,” Elezar says, “you have to know that I’m—that I work for the same people that Vigaro does. I’ve never kidnapped any magical beings for the government to confine or experiment on but I’ve killed them in Cadeleon’s name.”

For several long minutes that stretch into brief eternities, Skellan doesn’t reply.

BUT YOU’RE DIFFERENT

“It helps me to think so,” Elezar says. “But I don’t know if that’s true.”

I BELIEVE YOU ARE MY MAN

“And I won’t—I’ll stop, after I get you out.” He doesn’t know where they’ll go, but Cadeleon’s reach grows shorter every year. Magic thrives beyond its borders, and Skellan will hopefully be safe there. Labara, especially the north, is increasingly independent; the Mirogoth Wilds are governed by a disparate group of witches: they have no love for Cadeleon at all.

I DON’T DOUBT YOU. A pause, then, BUT YOU MIGHT WANT TO DRESS FIRST

Heat floods Elezar’s face, and not from the elevated temperature of the bathroom. He fumbles for a towel, wrapping it securely around his hips, and hurries back into the bedroom.

NEED TO REST is painted in blood on the wall opposite his bed when Elezar finishes pulling on a pair of sleep pants. TALK TOMORROW

“Yeah,” Elezar says. He has to clear his throat twice before it comes out as more than a croak. He climbs into bed, unnerved for entirely different reasons than before. Skellan can see and hear him, obviously, but the only trace Elezar has of Skellan are the bloody messages that fade away as soon as Elezar reads them. The situation is uniquely unbalanced, but it’s hardly Skellan’s fault he has to—what, project his consciousness? Elezar doesn’t even know how to describe it; Javier’s abilities are nothing like Skellan’s.

GOOD NIGHT waits for him when Elezar glances back across the room.

Skellan had said he needed rest, yet he’d wasted his magic on such a simple wish? Elezar stares at the words until they disappear, wondering what it all means.

* * *

Elezar jolts awake disoriented the next morning; he doesn’t remember falling asleep, and he clings to the realization that had so rudely awakened him: Garcia had mentioned a Juan the night before. Vigaro’s first name is Juan.

“Skellan?” Elezar whispers into the stillness of the room.

I’M HERE, appears before his eyes on the same wall as before.

Elezar sighs out a relieved breath. “Vigaro will know he’s the next target. He warned Garcia that someone was coming for him. Does that put you in danger? Will he realize you’re involved?”

Skellan doesn’t answer for several endless seconds. Then: MAYBE

“Then we have to get you out of there,” Elezar says. But infiltrating a secure facility is different than breaking into an apartment building, and Elezar had managed to botch the latter rather badly just the day before. If the facility has magic users incarcerated, it willhave all sorts of security personnel and technology to keep them confined.

Elezar’s confident he can get through the guards—he’s trained for these kinds of engagements, after all—but the security system is another question entirely. He also has no idea about the building’s layout: he’s checked it out a few times on public satellite images available online, and it looks relatively small from above—no way of knowing how deep below the earth it goes.

I CAN BYPASS MOST OF THE SECURITY SYSTEMS, Skellan tells him; for a second, Elezar wonders if the witch can read his mind. NEED HELP GETTING OUT OF MY CELL AND DEALING WITH THE GUARDS

Elezar nods slowly. “Do you know where you’re being held?”

SORT OF

“Sort of?” Elezar echoes skeptically.

IT’S A SPECIAL AREA DESIGNED TO SUPPRESS MAGIC, Skellan explains. CAN’T PERCEIVE IT CLEARLY BUT I KNOW HOW TO GET TO THE EDGE OF IT

“Right,” Elezar says, though privately he wonders how Skellan can communicate with him if his magic is suppressed. “Well, that won’t be an issue for me. I have no magical ability at all.” Some people had an innate aptitude for magic: Javier had tested extremely highly in their final year of Sagrada, which led to his bond or whatever it is with the white hell. Most people can probably learn simple spells with enough study, though the government kept that information to itself; Elezar is one of the rare cases with no affinity for it whatsoever.

It’s what makes him the ideal soldier in the government’s eyes, despite the fact that Javier is far stronger. Command looks upon Javier with suspicion, despite the fact that they were the ones who forced the white hell upon him. Javier always says he chose it, but Elezar can’t help wondering what the alternative was.

NO ONE’S PERFECT, comes Skellan’s reply.

Elezar snorts in spite of himself, shaking off his dark thoughts. He’s already made his own choice to cut ties with the government and its military: Skellan’s predicament is just the last in a long list of wrongs Elezar can no longer tolerate, much less help propagate. “Seems like you have enough magic to make up for it.”

OBVIOUSLY. Somehow, Skellan manages to convey smug pride with just a handful of letters. THEY WOULDN’T HAVE BOTHERED WITH LOCKING ME UP IF I WERE WEAK

Elezar’s mirth fades. “I’ll go in tonight, Skellan. I don’t want you to spend another day longer in there.”

I’LL NEED TO FIND ANOTHER BODY THEN

“What?” Elezar shivers, his skin prickling with sudden cold, but there is no reply.

* * *

Atreau is standing in the foyer, his hands clasped behind his back as he studies a portrait of some long-dead Grunito ancestor: the very picture of an unassuming tourist, if that tourist looked and dressed like a fashion model.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Elezar hisses.

Atreau widens his eyes, feigning confusion. His lips part invitingly, all innocent surprise; Elezar is too accustomed to his habits by now to be distracted by that pout, and only glares steadily at him.

“I heard there was a walking path on the grounds; have you tried it?” Atreau doesn’t go so far as to bat his eyelashes, but he somehow manages to convey the sentiment all the same.

The foyer is deserted, but Elezar can hear voices from rooms connected to the entrance hall: probably actual tourists, and maybe a guide. “The ruins are interesting.” He doesn’t wince at how wooden he sounds to his own ears, though it’s a close thing; Atreau’s eyes crinkle up at the corners though he otherwise betrays no sign of amusement.

“How fascinating. I love old ruins.”

Elezar exhales, not quite a sigh, and continues out of the manor. He’d planned to purchase more ammunition and a few other supplies while he waited for Skellan to return with another body, but perhaps it’s better to remain near the house so Skellan can find him more easily.

He heads for the far end of the path and takes his time walking to the ruins.

Atreau is another member of his and Javier’s unit; Elezar wishes his presence meant that Javier and Kiram were finished with their mission, but it’s more likely that Atreau’s skillset was deemed unnecessary. If they were back, one of them would have let Elezar know.

He finds Atreau perched on the crumbling wall, idly kicking one heel against the worn stone. If the nonchalance is affected, it’s good enough Elezar can’t see through it.

“What are you doing here?” Elezar repeats, not bothering to lower his voice this time.

“Kiram and Javier thought you might want backup with—whatever it is you’re doing out here.” Atreau waves a hand vaguely, then his entire demeanour shifts as he leans forward intently, actually batting his eyelashes this time. “I can’t imagine what you’re doing that would require a honeypot, but count me in.” His lips curl into a coy smile.

Elezar rolls his eyes. Atreau is usually the one they entrust the seductions to, but that’s hardly the extent of his talents. He has a way with people, which of course helps him seduce them, but it has any number of other applications as well. He is also the best marksmen on the team, with any kind of weapon, though that is a skill that he doesn’t advertise, and he’s the most technologically savvy of them, aside from Kiram.

But Elezar can’t ask him to betray his country, he realizes with a cold shudder. He doesn’t think Atreau would turn him in—they were in the same class at Sagrada, him and Atreau and Javier, a tie that binds them closer than with the rest of the team, but Elezar doesn’t want to put him in that position either.

Atreau’s face stills, his suddenly-keen gaze the only animation in his expression. It’s as close to his true face as Elezar has, and likely will, ever come: most of the masks removed, a sign of trust that Elezar refuses to abuse or take advantage of.

“So Kiram was right,” Atreau says. “You’re really planning to break into a top-secret government detention facility to kill the chief administrator.”

Elezar twitches in spite of himself. Had Javier told Kiram everything? Or just about his most likely next target?

“You’re a terrible liar,” Atreau sighs. “I’ve looked into this Vigaro, actually. He seems like a real bastard.”

“Really?” Elezar asks blankly. “I’ve been keeping tabs on him for a while and he’s always kept to himself.”

Atreau smiles thinly. “You know I have friends in all sorts of places, Elezar. Including human resources and internal affairs. The files on Vigaro are sealed, but I have my ways.” His smile fades. “He’s got friends in high places, though. There was a serious push to investigate this facility a couple of years ago, but then it just went dead. The people who were behind it have disappeared too. What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Elezar doesn’t feel like answering that. “Do you know who’s being held in there?”

“High risk assets.” Atreau’s mouth twists. “If there are electronic records, they’re stored on a closed server in the facility itself. I’d guess... at most a dozen, based on the personnel roster and the expense reports.”

Elezar rubs a hand over his mouth. Just getting Skellan out will be difficult enough; he can’t imagine bringing ten people out with him. But he can’t leave them there either.

“Why do you care about that? Javier said you just wanted to take Vigaro out.”

“There’s a witch. Or something. He doesn’t have powers like Javier, that’s for sure. But he’s been—helping me take out a certain group of people. I promised I’d break him out.”

Atreau’s brows draw together. “If he’s being held in this facility—everyone in there has been classified extremely dangerous.”

“Magic is also classified as a fairy tale, but we both know that isn’t true,” Elezar retorts, meeting Atreau’s skeptical gaze steadily.

“I wish Javier was here,” Atreau mutters at last. “He’d be able to tell me if you were bewitched.”

“I don’t think I have been, but I guess I wouldn’t know,” Elezar says slowly. “He’s been locked up in there since he was a child, Atreau. He said he was twenty or twenty-one. He doesn’t even know for sure how old he is!”

Atreau tilts his head slightly, studying Elezar in the ringing silence; Elezar relaxes his fists, aware and vaguely embarrassed of how heated he’d just been, but he doesn’t apologize.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this about anyone, not even Javier.”

Elezar scowls, his fingers curling up against his palms again. “It’s not like that,” he grits out.

“All right.” Atreau doesn’t make an attempt to appear convinced, though, any more than he had when he’d confronted Elezar about his one-sided attraction to Javier fucking up the dynamic of their unit. But Elezar had managed to get over it then and act normally, and—that isn’t even applicable now, because Elezar doesn’t really _know_ Skellan at all.  
  
A bark cuts through the tension, and a dog bounds out of the trees. It stops when it sees Atreau, glancing quickly at Elezar and then back at Atreau, its hackles rising.  
  
“Aw, it’s a doge!” Atreau coos.  
  
“That’s a dog,” Elezar says, not sure if Atreau’s selective Labaran accent is coming out or if he is genuinely confused about this. The dog has a white undercoat and a red overcoat, and it’s a lot smaller than the chow chow, though it’s a far cry from the lap dogs Elezar’s mother prefers.  
  
“I know it’s a dog,” Atreau says scathingly, then goes back to cooing at the dog, hand outstretched for it to sniff.  
  
“Well then why did you—”  
  
“It’s a meme. God, you really are technologically illiterate.” Atreau reaches down to pet the dog's pointed red ears.  
  
“I am not!” This again, and from Atreau, who is nowhere near Kiram’s level of genius. Elezar tries not to fume too visibly, though knowing Atreau—he’s goading Elezar on purpose.  
  
Gratifyingly, the dog snaps at Atreau’s hand and then prances over to Elezar, rearing back on its hind legs in a vain attempt to lick his face.  
  
“Easy—Skellan? Is that you?”  
  
The dog—Skellan—nods enthusiastically, then goes back to jumping at Elezar. He isn’t an oversized fluffball anymore, so he can’t reach.  
  
Elezar bites back a laugh and kneels so he can scratch behind Skellan’s ears. It’s a little weird, knowing that the dog isn’t just exceptionally smart but is actually a person, and he’s also aware of Atreau staring at him like he’s lost his mind, so he stands again sooner than he’d like.  
  
“Skellan, this is Atreau. Atreau... Skellan.”  
  
Skellan somehow manages to look down his snout at Atreau, despite being about a foot tall; Atreau looks equally dubious.  
  
“This is your witch?”  
  
“He’s not my—” Elezar cuts himself off; the more he protests, the more Atreau will heckle him. “Skellan, Atreau is my teammate. He’ll—” Elezar hesitates. Atreau had said he was in, but that was before he realized the extent of what Elezar has planned; whether he still intends to aid Elezar is up in the air.  
  
“I’ll help you,” Atreau says. “I’ve already made arrangements to get us inside tomorrow.” He doesn’t take his eyes off of Skellan though.  
  
“Can you wait that long?” Elezar asks.  
  
Skellan cocks his head, studying Atreau for several moments before looking back at Elezar.  
  
“I trust him,” Elezar says. “But I’ll go in tonight instead if you can’t trust him. Our chances of success will definitely be higher with Atreau, but—”  
  
Skellan barks once, then crosses the distance between Elezar and Atreau carefully. Atreau tenses, but holds his hand out again; Skellan sniffs him, licks at his fingers, then returns to Elezar’s side.  
  
“Nice to meet you too,” Atreau says drily. “Does this mean we’ll be waiting for tomorrow, or do we need to go tonight?”  
  
Skellan gives him an annoyed look, then glances at Elezar expectantly.  
  
“Tonight?” When Skellan shakes his head, Elezar tries, “Tomorrow?”  
  
Skellan nods, his tail wagging.

* * *

Atreau and Majdi—of course Atreau charmed Kiram’s brother into giving him his name—have it all arranged: transport, equipment, timetables—everything.  
  
“This could come back on you,” Elezar said quietly, catching Majdi’s arm as he made to leave after dropping off the last of their gear.  
  
“My uncle and his partner disappeared a few years ago. It’s what led to Kiram joining the special forces,” Majdi said. “The government was going to put my uncle’s husband in a black site like the one you’re going after. They ran away before that could happen, but Kiram only managed to track them down a few months ago. They’re safe, but they can never come home again. And if you go through with this, you’ll be the same. Are you prepared for that?”  
  
Elezar met the other man’s gaze with difficulty. Someone would uncover his involvement eventually; probably sooner rather than later. Vigaro had figured out his former accomplices were being targeted, though he hadn’t considered Elezar a suspect—or at least, hadn’t trusted Garcia enough to tell him as much. It wasn’t a question of _if_ the truth would come, but when.  
  
“I know what this means,” Elezar said, releasing Majdi’s arm.  
  
“Good.” Majdi gave him a mocking salute and sauntered off.  
  
The exchange still sticks in Elezar’s mind as Atreau drives the armoured truck (seriously, where had they found an armoured truck just lying around on such short notice?) towards the black site.  
  
Anacleto is no longer his home. The latest house where his parents and the majority of his brothers still lived isn’t home either; the modest apartment he rents in Cieloalta certainly can’t be considered his home. He would miss his family, but when was the last time he’d seen them? Last Solstice? No, he’d missed that one; the year before, then.  
  
Elezar’s a pretty shit brother, now that he thinks of it.  
  
“We’re here,” Atreau says, unnecessarily. The facility is fenced off entirely, aside from a security gate that they’re rapidly approaching. Barbed wire coils from post to post above the concrete slabs.  
  
“What, no watchtower?” Elezar mutters. Atreau smacks him on the shoulder with the back of his hand, but Elezar saw the corner of his mouth twitch up at the weak joke.  
  
Elezar schools his face into a stoic mask as they pull up to the gatehouse, staring straight ahead as Atreau leans his forearm against the window and charms the guard into letting them in.  
  
Skellan is tucked away in the back, his distinctive red coat hidden beneath a blanket. He hasn’t made a sound since they got into the vehicle.  
  
The facility is as unassuming in person as it had appeared in the satellite images; a few storage crates stacked in one corner of the yard, far enough away from the actual wall so as not to serve as an impromptu staircase, are the only signs of personality. The squat, rectangular building looks like it wants to be a bunker but couldn’t even manage that much character.  
  
“There’s at least ten levels,” Atreau had told him. “The elevator is the only way to reach the surface, but it only extends to the first basement level. There’s another elevator that connects the rest of the floors, and a staircase on the opposite end.” When they’d asked Skellan if he knew where he was being held, he hadn’t been able to tell them, so they’d have to sweep each floor until they found him.  
  
Atreau parks the truck right before the doors and Elezar climbs out, angling his body so Skellan can hop out and round the front of the truck without the gate guard spotting him. He props his front legs on the wall next to the keypad and nudges at the device with his nose. The lock clicks open a second later.  
  
“Handy,” Atreau comments, tossing Elezar a bag of gear and slinging his own over his shoulder.  
  
They clear out the ground floor quickly enough. There’s nothing of note on this level: it’s just a shell to hide the truth lurking below the earth. The people working here might not even know what really goes on at this facility: the guard at the gate hadn’t seemed all that suspicious of them.  
  
Skellan leads them to a dead end near the centre of the building, if Elezar’s internal compass isn’t off; the dog depresses an otherwise unremarkable bit of the wall with a paw, and the entire section slides smoothly aside to reveal the sleek interior of an elevator. An extremely large elevator that wouldn’t look out of place transporting freight in a warehouse, if not for the gleaming stainless steel panels covering the walls.  
  
Atreau and Elezar exchange a look, but they climb in without a word. Skellan works his magic on the retinal scanner and sets the car into motion so smooth that Elezar barely notices them descending, though the speed and distance must be considerable.  
  
The first basement level is easy to clear. There’s a modest kitchen and a small barracks, a handful of offices that don’t seem to contain anything of use. It looks more like a living space than a top-secret facility. They jam the doors of the elevator open, so outside reinforcements will have to descend down the shaft, and Atreau leaves a couple of small devices in the corners.  
  
“What are those?” Elezar asks. They look like Kiram’s work, but he can’t begin to guess at their purpose.  
  
“Standard issue combat boots,” Atreau says, deadpan, then casts a despairing look skyward when Elezar just stares at him blankly. “Stun mines. Kiram’s newest invention. Still in the prototype stage, so instead of sending out an electric shock that renders the victim unconscious, they might cause death, but I figure it’s better than accidentally blowing up our only way out of here.”  
  
“Why does Kiram give you all the new toys?” Elezar mutters.  
  
“Because I can actually comprehend how to use them without injuring myself,” Atreau says mercilessly.  
  
“I’m not an idiot,” Elezar insists.  
  
“Mm.” Atreau somehow manages to make the hum sound disagreeable. “You’re lucky you have the whole—” he waves vaguely at Elezar’s entire self, “—bear thing going for you.”  
  
Skellan barks in agreement.  
  
“Excuse me?” Elezar demands, betrayed.  
  
Atreau smiles insincerely at him and reloads his clip. “Shall we?”

* * *

They barricade the stairwell door as well and take the other elevator down. On the next floor, they encounter some resistance, but the rooms on that floor still remind Elezar more of an office building than anything else. They check each room just in case, but there’s no sign of any cells, much less one that suppresses magic.  
  
The third level is more useful. Atreau finds a computer hooked up to the closed network and pulls up the files on everyone being held within.  
  
“There’s no mention Skellan in any of these,” Atreau mutters, scrolling too swiftly for Elezar to read.  
  
Skellan puts his front paws up on the desk and peers at the screen.  
  
“Go slower,” Elezar says over his shoulder as he heads back to the door to stand guard with his gun cocked in case anyone comes by.  
  
Atreau reads the names in a low voice. “Radulf, Hilthorn,” is the fourth or fifth name in the list; Skellan barks when Atreau says the name.  
  
“Radulf?” Atreau repeats in a strange voice, and Elezar glances over sharply in time to see Skellan nod. Atreau’s face goes very still then, but a pair of guards rounds the corner further down the hall before Elezar can press him for information; he takes them out with two taps to the chest and reloads the gun.  
  
“Where’s he being held?” Elezar demands; Atreau’s gotten his expression under control by then.  
  
“Tenth level, of course. There’s a security office on the next floor though. We should be able to find Vigaro on the security cams there,” Atreau adds.  
  
Skellan bounds ahead; Elezar’s learned that means there are no other hostiles around, and lags behind a bit to walk beside Atreau.  
  
“You know who Skellan is?” he asks quietly, keeping one eye on Skellan’s cheerful form and the other on Atreau’s shuttered face.  
  
A muscle in his jaw tenses, which is a pretty damning tell for always-composed Atreau. “Maybe. Radulf is a Labaran name.” His voice is carefully neutral.  
  
Elezar frowns at him; Atreau’s mother is from Labara, which has been a protectorate (read: forcibly held colony) of Cadeleon for centuries. It’s a point of contention between Atreau and their superiors: despite Labara’s ties to Cadeleon, its people are still viewed as second class citizens whose loyalty to Cadeleon cannot be fully trusted. Given some of the offhand comments Atreau has made, Elezar knows that the way Cadeleon treats the other nation has a large part to do with that.  
  
“So they violated the treaty?” Elezar presses, unable to shake the feeling that he’s missing something.  
  
“That may be the least of it,” Atreau says cryptically.  
  
Skellan barks impatiently from up ahead: he’s already sitting in the elevator waiting for them.  
  
Atreau avoids his eyes when Elezar tries to give him a speaking look, and hastens to join Skellan.

* * *

They almost get cornered on the next floor, two groups of guards keeping them pinned down on either end of the hallway.  
  
“Wish Javier was here,” Atreau mutters, ducking out to exchange fire with the men on their right. Elezar just barely hears a shout over the gunshots: Atreau found his mark, as usual.  
  
Elezar smiles grimly. They’d used the Old Road that Javier can access from anywhere to get out of situations like these on more occasions than he could count.  
  
“Can you—” Elezar turns to look for Skellan, but the dog is nowhere to be seen.  
  
A snarl, far deeper than a dog Skellan’s size should be able to make, rumbles out on the left, followed by increasingly frantic shouts and curses from the men over there.  
  
Atreau and Elezar lean out together, taking aim at the startled guards on the other end of the hall; after that, they have an unimpeded path to the security office, Skellan trotting smugly up next to them with a blood-stained muzzle.  
  
“They know we’re here,” Atreau says, pointing at one of the monitors before them: the screen shows a massing of guards in front of the elevator on the tenth level, along with at least one researcher in a lab coat. Other feeds reveal that there’s a lab on one side of the single hallway, with an array of high-tech equipment that looks vaguely medical in nature. On the other side is a heavily fortified door, the thick steel covered in archaic scribbling that means nothing to Elezar. There’s no feed for the interior of the cell, but that must be where Skellan is being held.  
  
“And they know who we’re here for.” Elezar frowns hard.  
  
“They probably won’t hurt him,” Atreau says.  
  
Skellan cocks his head inquisitively.  
  
Atreau’s mouth thins unhappily as he stares down at him. “If you’re who I think you are. And even if you’re not—you’re still obviously a high value asset that they don’t want to lose.”  
  
Skellan shrugs, inasmuch as a dog can shrug, as if to say, _who, me_?  
  
“I should stay here and direct you,” Atreau says, turning his attention back to the display. His fingers fly over the keyboard and various feeds blink past swiftly on the monitors before them. “You’re not a terrible shot; you’ll be fine.”  
  
Elezar scowls at the back of his head. He would actually be the best shot on the team, if Atreau weren’t around. (And if he disregarded Kiram, who usually only acted in a supervisory role rather than take the field himself.) He just preferred fighting hand to hand or with a blade, as outdated as those styles might be now.  
  
It makes sense, though. With Atreau watching the enemy through the security feeds and relaying their movements to Elezar, they should be able to avoid getting pinned down again.  
  
“Right. Skellan will watch my back.”  
  
Skellan barks in agreement, his chest puffing out proudly.  
  
“Who could ask for a better partner?” Atreau’s tone is still off, though; Elezar wishes he had time to demand answers from him.  
  
“Let’s go, Skellan.” The sooner they get Skellan out and deal with Vigaro, the sooner he can figure out what’s making Atreau act so strangely.

* * *

The sixth level has the first sign that the facility is anything truly unusual. It’s built on a scale more akin to the elevators, with ridiculously high ceilings and equally wide corridors for no discernible reason. Skellan leads him to a large cell door once they clear out the guards, opening it the same way he’d done in the past, though this one takes several minutes.  
  
Elezar frowns when the door slides open to reveal a pile of rocks in one corner, taking a step forward to better see into the huge cell, but he stops, eyes wide, when the rocks suddenly unfold into a troll, of all things. Skellan bolts past him without a concern in the world, prancing around the massive beast’s feet and barking excitedly, his tail wagging so hard he looks on the verge of falling over.  
  
“Yes, Little Thorn, you’ve freed me,” the troll says, his deep voice slow and fond. “I never doubted you for an instant.”  
  
Elezar eyes the thing warily. He doubts bullets will make any real impact on the troll’s thick skin, and his knives will be even more useless.  
  
“This is your Elezar?”  
  
He twitches to hear his name, glancing sharply at Skellan as he barks an affirmative.  
  
The troll looks at Elezar calmly, his deepset eyes foreign and unnerving; Elezar meets his gaze as steadily as he can.  
  
“Who else is being held here?” Elezar asks, when he can’t take it any longer.  
  
“Little Thorn. Two young ones of my kind. A griffin. Several other humans whose names I do not know.”  
  
“Four hostiles incoming from the stairwell,” Atreau says in his ear. He keeps his voice distant and professional, and it’s impossible to read anything more into his tone over the earwig. He’s taking the troll’s appearance better than Elezar, anyway.  
  
The troll steps over Elezar, who has to duck to avoid getting his eye poked out, and smashes the first two guards aside with one sweep of his massive hand. The third is crushed underfoot, and he kicks the fourth into the wall in the same motion.  
  
“Well, that’s one way to do it,” Atreau says, stunned enough that his astonishment comes over loud and clear.  
  
“Explains why this level is built on a bigger scale,” Elezar agrees blankly, watching the troll come back down the hall and rip open the cell door on the other side of the hall. Two trolls stumble out, smaller than the first—which is to say they’re only about twice Elezar’s height and three to four times as wide.  
  
“How are we going to take them with us?” Atreau asks. “We’d need a semi-trailer, and I don’t even know if that would be large enough.”  
  
Elezar blinks in surprise as he watches the two younger trolls embrace the elder one. He hadn’t even considered that; it wasn’t that he’d intended to leave the other prisoners behind, but he’d assumed they’d be human, or at least human-sized. One of the smaller trolls could probably fit into the back of their armoured truck, but its weight would probably slow them considerably, to say nothing of the other two—  
  
“Wish Javier was here,” Elezar mutters. He could probably take them on his road with little trouble.  
  
Atreau huffs out a laugh. “I’m telling him you said that.”  
  
“Then I’ll tell him you said it first!”  
  
“Ah, but Javier already knows I appreciate him. I don’t have that adorable rivalry the two of your share.”  
  
“Whatever,” Elezar says irritably. “How many hostiles left?”  
  
“Thirteen that I can see. A dozen guards on the tenth level, and Vigaro’s with them.”  
  
“What about the other levels?” Elezar winces as the first troll rips off the door of another cell, throwing it aside with an ear-shattering crash, releasing the afore-mentioned griffin.  
  
“Empty. There were some other magic users—a couple of witches and a Bahiim, but I was checking over their files and they were killed a few days ago.”  
  
Skellan whines, butting his head against Elezar’s thigh. Obviously, his hearing is keen enough to pick up Atreau’s voice.  
  
Elezar rubs a hand as comfortingly as he knows how over Skellan’s ears. The short fur is prickly and stiff with blood. “We’ll avenge them,” he promises.

* * *

The two younger trolls accompany them to the tenth level, despite a fierce argument that consisted of the older troll speaking in a low (for him) tone that was perfectly audible to Elezar and Skellan barking agitatedly. Interestingly, the younger trolls seemed to agree that they should come, while Skellan was opposed to it.  
  
“No, Little Thorn,” the troll finally rumbled. “Your Elezar looks strong, for a human, but how will he open your cell? You’ve told me you cannot spell it open yourself.”  
  
Skellan settled into a grudging silence, slinking to the elevator where the other trolls and Elezar waited.  
  
“I think I can turn off the lights on that level,” Atreau says, and Elezar pauses before pressing the button for the lowest level. “Have the trolls wait on either side of the doors, and go down the stairwell with Skellan.”  
  
Elezar relays the plan to Skellan, who communicates it to the trolls, and hurries to the stairwell after sending the elevator to the floor below.  
  
The lights go out as Elezar reaches the bottom. Skellan nips at his hand, growling low when Elezar jerks his hand away instinctively. He lowers it hesitantly, curling in the thick red fur on the back of Skellan’s neck. Somehow, so long as he keeps in contact with Skellan, he can see in the darkness.  
  
He hears the ringing chime of the elevator doors opening, a spill of light from the car visible beneath the crack of the door, followed by a hail of bullets from the guards.  
  
Skellan leads him forward cautiously; Elezar eases the door open as quietly as he can, the sound lost among the shouts of the guards.  
  
“Where are they?”  
  
“Where the fuck—?!”  
  
“Come out, you fucking—”  
  
Half of them approach the bullet-riddled elevator warily, while the others cover them from further down the hall.  
  
Elezar slits the throat of the nearest guard, and goes through another two before they notice him amongst them. The trolls burst out of elevator and take out the six that had come to investigate; Elezar kicks the next guard’s gun out of his hands, and slits his throat as well.  
  
Skellan slams into a fifth guard, and the trolls are upon the sixth before she can decide who to shoot.  
  
Elezar flinches, momentarily blinded as the lights flicker back on.  
  
“Behind you!” Atreau shouts; Elezar spins immediately, his knife flying from his hand to sink into Vigaro’s eye. The man crumples without a sound, blood staining his white lab coat.  
  
Elezar goes back down the hall and puts a bullet in the brain of each downed guard, just in case; he learned his lesson with Garcia.  
  
The trolls are prying at the cell door when Elezar returns, Skellan directing—or perhaps merely barking encouragement. It all sounds the same to him. Elezar stops before Vigaro’s body, staring down at his slack, ruined face.  
  
He’s still recognizable, even in death. He looks a lot better than Isandro did once they were done with him. Dimly, Elezar feels a flare of pain: his palms protesting how hard he’s digging his blunt nails into them. It should have been slower; all of them died too quickly, poor repayment for the suffering they put their so-called friend to. All over some outdated notion of religious righteousness.  
  
The sound of the cell door dropping noisily to the floor rouses Elezar from his dark thoughts. He steps over Vigaro’s body and enters the cell, Skellan close at his heels; the dog bumps into him when Elezar halts just inside the doorway, his discontent with Vigaro’s swift death disappearing.  
  
Skellan—the emaciated body must be Skellan—is strapped to a gurney pushed up against the wall, surrounded by a terrifying array of machinery. Just about the only things Elezar recognizes are the IV and the heart monitor, which beeps weakly in time with Skellan’s pulse. There’s a tube going down his throat, for fuck’s sake. Is he sick? The vivid red hair that Skellan showed him just a couple days earlier is much longer now, but faded and lifeless against the musty pillow.  
  
Impossibly, his eyes open, heartrate spiking audibly; Elezar barely hears the thump of the dog’s body hitting the floor. Skellan tries to speak, but can’t. His thin wrists jerk against the restraints and Elezar’s muscles unlock. He rushes to Skellan’s side, fumbling for the releases.  
  
“I’ve got you, stop pulling—I have you,” Elezar says, carefully slipping his knife between the cuff and Skellan’s thin wrist. He slices it open with a swift movement then curls Skellan’s shaking, skeletal fingers around the hilt, and goes to pull out one of the blades Kiram’s brother had supplied him.  
  
Skellan chokes out what might be Elezar’s name. From the hallway behind him, one of the trolls makes a cry of alarm. Skellan’s panicked eyes flick desperately to the other side of the cell.  
  
Elezar barely manages to knock Vigaro’s arm away; the gunshot is loud in his ear, but Elezar ignores it with the ease of long practice and allows his momentum to carry him forward into Vigaro’s space.  
  
The last of Isandro’s killers is not a particularly large man. Elezar’s weight carries them both to the ground, and he jars Vigaro’s hand against the concrete until his fingers spasm and release the gun. It’s over fast: Elezar gets his hands around the man’s neck, ignoring the sting of Vigaro’s nails as he scrabbles at him, and twists.  
  
“What’s going on? Elezar? I heard a gunshot,” Atreau says, his voice tightly controlled. “I can’t see into the cell at all.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Elezar says tersely. He stands from Vigaro’s still form and turns back to Skellan. He’s managed to remove the rest of his restraints, along with the breathing tube and the whole host of other devices attached to various parts of his body, though he left the IV with the parenteral nutrition bag in. He can barely sit up though, his shoulder pressed against the unforgiving wall beside him to keep himself propped upright. His pupils are blown and unfocused as Elezar returns to his side, but his eyes stay fixed on Elezar all the same.  
  
“Do you think you can walk?” Elezar asks quietly.  
  
Skellan’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Frustration flashes across his face, and he lifts a shaking hand to pluck at one of the pockets on Elezar’s bulletproof vest. Elezar pulls out the protein bar Skellan had insistently pressed on him before they’d left, watching in bemusement as Skellan snatches it away now and scrabbles at the wrapper one-handed; he seems unwilling to release Elezar’s knife.  
  
Elezar takes it away when Skellan seems on the verge of using the knife to open it and quickly rips the bar open. Skellan grabs his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and pulls the bar close enough for him to devour in three bites.  
  
“Need food,” Skellan says about five seconds later. Elezar just stares at him: Skellan looks less like he was on the verge of starvation and more like he’s just very underfed, which should be impossible. After a second, Elezar hands him the other two bars that Skellan had forced him to take earlier; he regrets switching the others out for ammo now, but he hadn’t realized why Skellan was so insistent.  
  
“Do you see any food nearby, Atreau?” Elezar asks as Skellan all but inhales those too.  
  
Atreau doesn’t reply immediately; the silence feels vaguely judgmental. “No. Well, there’s the kitchen on the first level. But we can stop at McDonald’s if you’re that hungry.”  
  
“Skellan needs food,” Elezar snaps: he’s already devoured everything Elezar had on him. “We need to raid the kitchen before we go.”  
  
Before Elezar can get him to his feet, Skellan rips out the IV and then squeezes the remaining contents of the bag into his mouth.  
  
“Is that—Never mind,” Elezar mutters. He slips one of Skellan’s arms over his shoulder and helps him to the ground. Skellan stumbles at first, but by the time they’ve reached the door, he’s walking confidently enough that Elezar doubts he needs the support. Neither of them try to step apart, though.  
  
Elezar pauses when he sees the man in the lab coat that he’d mistaken for Vigaro. He looks nothing like Isandro’s killer now.  
  
“He had some skill with illusions,” Skellan says hoarsely, twisting to look back at the real Vigaro. “But his witchflame was too weak for anything stronger than a charm to hide his identity.” His lip curls back in a snarl reminiscent of one his dog forms might wear. “He’s lucky you made it fast. I wouldn’t have.”  
  
“I hadn’t planned on it either,” Elezar admits.  
  
Skellan turns to grin at him; his eyes are very green from this close. Elezar clears his throat, his face suddenly overwarm. His body feels feverish everywhere it’s pressed against Skellan, but he is strangely disinclined to put distance between them. Before he can decide upon the proper course of action—following through on his sudden impulse to close the gap between them, or maintain a more proper distance—the dog suddenly rouses with a startled bark, turning in a quick circle as it takes in its surroundings.  
  
Skellan shifts against him: tucking Elezar’s knife between the waistband of his scrubs and his skin. He stretches out his free hand a moment later, calling the dog to him. It sniffs at his fingers, then falls in beside them.  
  
The two trolls are waiting for them back in the elevator. The dog whines when it sees the creatures, but Skellan hushes it with a few soft sounds. They pick up the older troll and the griffin on the sixth level, and Atreau meets them on the third, a grim expression on his face.  
  
“They must have gotten word out, or we triggered some alarm: there’s a small army coming,” Atreau says. “I locked down the gate, but it’s the only way out and it won’t hold them off for—” He stops as Skellan comes into his line of sight, blatantly staring at the witch. He obviously recognizes Skellan, and he just as obviously doesn’t like that knowledge: as if Skellan is a ghost come back to haunt him.  
  
“Didn’t I hear you mention a kitchen, my man?” Skellan looks expectantly at Elezar, unconcerned with the prospect of reinforcements and seemingly oblivious to Atreau’s unease. Admittedly, Elezar only notices it from years of close quarters with him.  
  
“Why not?” Atreau says smoothly, recovering some of his composure. “Everyone deserves a last meal.”

* * *

Skellan cleans out the fridge in the small kitchen; the appliance’s contents are precisely as dubious as any communal fridge Elezar’s ever seen, but instead of contracting instant food poisoning, Skellan comes out of it looking like a healthy young man.  
  
“I’ve seen Javier eat some suspect things,” Atreau says faintly, “but that jar of pickles was absolutely rank.”  
  
Elezar’s stomach had turned over as soon as Skellan unscrewed the lid, but— “He seems fine.”  
  
“He’s practically glowing,” Atreau agrees as Skellan moves on to the cupboards.  
  
Skellan pauses with a box of crackers raised to his lips: why bother taking them out when he can just dump them straight into his mouth?  
  
“Someone’s here,” he says, then swallows the rest of the snacks. The box joins the rest of the containers on the floor. It’s kind of impressive how much food was crammed into the kitchen, never mind that Skellan managed to consume it all in about ten minutes, and about half of that was spent opening various packages.  
  
“The small army I mentioned?” Atreau asks drily.  
  
“No. They feel like death.” Skellan turns to stare at the wall after that dire pronouncement. Elezar and Atreau exchange a look.  
  
“Another witch?” Elezar presses uneasily.  
  
“No.” A note of impatience enters Skellan’s voice. “No witch would interfere with death, unless they were an idiot who didn’t know better, or chose to ignore what they did know. Like Vigaro.”  
  
They don’t really know what Vigaro was researching; Elezar had assumed his position was a polite fiction to facilitate plausible denial—but before he can press Skellan further, Javier and Kiram appear without warning.  
  
The Old Road looms behind them, a hungry mouth waiting to devour any foolish enough to step onto the path. The stale, dead air from that strange dimension is momentarily stifling, before Javier seals the way shut behind them a careless flick of his wrist.  
  
The unnatural cast to his form fades with the road, and his face is only face again, forever nineteen. In darker moments, Elezar wonders if the way Javier seems lit from within, his skin semi-transparent and handsome features resembling nothing so much as a mask stretched over a bare skull, isn’t more true than the eternal youth he displays when he isn’t actively drawing on the power of the white hell.  
  
“I heard you missed me, Elezar.” Javier grins widely, none the worse for the wear despite his travel on the road. Kiram is pale beside him, chafing at his arms in an attempt to generate some warmth after that unearthly chill. His easy expression remains fixed as he takes in the scene: Skellan amidst a pile of empty food containers, Elezar and Atreau a few feet away, the two young trolls peering in through the human-sized door. The older troll had already gone to wait in the elevator: the corridor was barely large enough for him to squeeze through. “Looks like you’ve managed to keep busy, though.”  
  
Skellan steps between them before Elezar can reply, the space around him warping like air in the middle of a heat wave.  
  
For perhaps the first time, Elezar wishes he had some affinity for magic, so he could have some idea of what was happening. He can see the lights Javier conjured like party favours, and the more impressive displays of the white hell’s power that he used on their missions, but most times, like now, he is only aware of magic happening without any ability to perceive it in any meaningful way.  
  
Javier’s grin shifts, his assessing eyes turning the expression predatory as he sizes Skellan up.  
  
“Atreau’s the one who missed you,” Elezar says with forced levity, stepping up beside Skellan despite his instincts telling him to stay away. They reacted the same way around Javier for the first year or so after the white hell; Elezar ignores it with the ease of long practice.  
  
Then again, he’s never known Javier to hesitate asserting his dominance over an unknown witch. Does he trust that Elezar trusts Skellan, or is Skellan actually strong enough to give him pause? And if Javier is wary, should Elezar not be too—?  
  
“Yeah.” Javier’s eyes flick down briefly before returning to Skellan’s face. “You never gave me your knife.”  
  
“If we’re done with the pissing contest,” Kiram says. There’s a note of exhaustion in his voice, along with tightness around his eyes. How long were they on the Old Road? “There’s a small army converging on our position. The sooner we get back on the road, the better.”  
  
“We’re not going into death,” Skellan declares.  
  
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s purgatory, at worst,” Javier says dismissively, which only makes Skellan bristle and step forward again, putting himself between Elezar and the others once more.  
  
“Skellan, that asshole is Javier, and the blond one is Kiram,” Elezar says quietly, shooting Javier a look that says back down. “We’re all members of the same special ops unit, and I trust them with my life.”  
  
Skellan turns his head marginally, though he keeps Javier in his sight. “You said you wouldn’t do that anymore,” he replies in a similar tone.  
  
“What was that?” Javier drawls, his tone making it perfectly obvious that he’d heard the first time.  
  
Elezar’s faced down a host of enemies—hostile magic users and their feral familiars, not to mention more mundane humans—on the battlefield, so he doesn’t flinch under the combined weight of his companions’ expectant gazes. But it’s a close thing.  
  
“I’m quitting the special forces,” Elezar says, squaring his shoulders. “I can’t support or condone what they do—what I’ve done—in Cadeleon’s name.”  
  
“I guess I can forgive you for beating me out this once,” Javier says. He doesn’t look remotely surprised. “Kiram and I are leaving too.”  
  
“What?” Elezar says blankly.  
  
“Yeah, we’ve been discussing it for a while,” Javier says off-handedly.  
  
“Atreau?” Kiram’s face is unreadable as he stares the fourth member of their team down.  
  
Atreau is just as inscrutable. Elezar’s stuck on a loop between knowing that Atreau wouldn’t stand a chance against them if he tried to stop them and flinching from the thought of having to deal with Atreau in that case.  
  
“I’ll come with you, obviously,” Atreau says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t exactly have the same close family ties that you all do.” His relationship with his father and half-siblings has always sounded strained on the rare occasions he ever spoke of them.  
  
“I was already the black sheep of the family,” Javier says cheerfully: the Tournesals have always served Cadeleon, though Javier was the first to join the special forces rather than a more publically-appealing branch of the military, or attending law school—something that would make the transition to politics smoother. That decision had never sat well with the older generation, but his cousin Fedeles is still close to him; he might be just about the only one.  
  
“I’ve been cutting ties with and distancing myself from my family for a while,” Kiram agrees calmly.  
  
“Oh, your family will be fine,” Javier says when he sees the look on Elezar’s face. “We can release the truth about what happened with your brother, the government will latch onto that to avoid facing certain other truths—You know how it goes. Besides, Mama Grunito is a minister on the cabinet. She’s thick as thieves with my parents, who I’m ninety-five percent certain are completely unaware of our government’s shadier dealings. She’ll be fine.”  
  
The truth about Isandro’s death will probably hurt her more than Elezar defecting. She might even be glad to see the last of him, when she finds out that Elezar lied about it for all these years—  
  
Elezar pushes those thoughts away. “You’re right.”  
  
“We’re not leaving without my friends,” Skellan says.  
  
Javier raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so you are willing to come on my road now?”  
  
“Javier,” Kiram says, before Elezar can snap at him. “Can you bring some... trolls?” He looks dubiously at the pair of young ones still crowding by the door.  
  
“Three trolls. Those two are kids, there’s another fully-grown one waiting outside. And a griffin. And my dog comes too,” Skellan adds quickly, his hand curling around the dog’s collar.  
  
“I can bring them, but I don’t know how they’ll react to the road,” Javier says. “It may not be a path into death, but it’s close enough to it that anyone following me sees their dead; and if any of you stray from the road, you’ll join them, forever.”  
  
Skellan looks up sharply, then sways; Elezar grabs his arm before he can fall, and he straightens up a moment later. “They’re here,” he says grimly. “How far can your road take us?”  
  
“Anywhere in the world,” Javier says arrogantly. “But we’ll have to stop at some point for rest. Even someone as magically-oblivious as Elezar can’t stay on it indefinitely.”  
  
“We should go to Labara,” Atreau says. “The northern county is practically independent from Cadeleon. We’ll be able to shelter there.” He doesn’t meet Elezar’s eyes.  
  
“Think you can manage another extended trip, babe?” Javier asks Kiram quietly, stepping up close to the other man. There’s an unfamiliar, tender expression on his face, and Elezar looks away from the private moment.  
  
“I’ll go tell the others,” Skellan says, striding out of the kitchen with the dog on his heels.  
  
“What the hell is going on?” Elezar turns to Atreau as soon as Skellan is gone; with how fast things are moving now, this may be the last time in a while he’ll have some privacy. “Who is he? And don’t bullshit me, Atreau,” he adds warningly.  
  
“I think he’s Count Radulf’s lost son,” Atreau murmurs.  
  
“Count—” Elezar stares at Atreau, but he seems completely serious. Cadeleon is a constitutional monarchy—some of the old families still retain their titles, although they’re little more than words at this point. The southern territories of Labara are the same, but the north—and the Mirogoth Wilds beyond them—still clings to the old ways.  
  
The count rules from Milmuraille, inasmuch as Cadeleon allows it. There’s some kind of agreement with the local grimma—a powerful witch—that guards Cadeleon from the Mirogothic hordes, but since it’s such an obvious acknowledgement of magic, the details aren’t exactly advertised by the government.  
  
“I heard his son’s disappearance was an inside job,” Elezar says, his eyes turning unwillingly to Skellan, framed in the doorway as he gestures and speaks with the magical creatures gathered in front of him.  
  
“It likely was,” Atreau agrees. “But he’s an adult now. Who knows the full extent of his power? And he has you to protect him.”  
  
“Will Skellan even need me around now that he’s free?” Elezar wonders. At the mention of his name, Skellan looks over and smiles at Elezar, his entire face lighting up with it for several endless seconds before he turns back to the trolls.  
  
When Elezar remembers that he asked Atreau a question that hasn’t gotten an answer yet and turns to look at the other man expectantly, Atreau’s giving him a pitying look. The one he gets when he thinks Elezar’s being an idiot but is too polite to tell him so. “At the very least, you can keep him from wandering off the Old Road,” he says mildly. “Something tells me he’ll like traveling on it even less than the rest of us.”

* * *

 

[epilogue]

 

  
The Sun Palace is even more luxurious than Elezar is accustomed to, and he grew up in one of the oldest, most storied homes in Cadeleon.  
  
The people are familiar, though Elezar had never met any of them before in his life, even the Cadeleonian representatives. The backstabbing and gossip and secret alliances are the same as they are in Cadeleon, and they’re probably the same the world over. Elezar hasn’t yet learned how to navigate the waters of Milmuraille’s court—past grievances, personal ties and other small details that he lacks the context to understand or recognize lurk beneath the surface, waiting to run him aground, but so far he’s managed to keep his head above water.  
  
The entire situation is completely foreign to Skellan. He hadn’t believed Atreau’s claim that he was Count Radulf’s son, and he views much of Milmuraille’s politics with complete bafflement, when the undercurrents don’t pass him by entirely. But Skellan is safe with his father, at least, and Javier and Kiram’s skills make them invaluable to the man looking to cut all ties with Cadeleon. Atreau has made a number of friends in and around the court as well: his position is a bit more precarious, but Elezar has never seen Atreau not land on his feet before, and his Labaran heritage is another asset for him to use to his advantage.  
  
The same cannot be said for Elezar. He is a good leader, an excellent soldier—loyal to a fault, to persons or causes that prove themselves worthy. Skellan and the rest of Elezar’s friends are the former; Count Radulf is decidedly not, charming and charismatic as he might be. The count had smiled, when their group presented themselves to him, but his eyes had been warm only when they rested upon Skellan.  
  
Count Radulf does not trust Elezar; the feeling is, for the most part, mutual. Elezar at least trusts that Count Radulf only wants the best for Skellan, though whether Skellan agrees with his father’s assessment of “the best“ is another question. The best, according to Count Radulf, includes a team of loyal Labaran bodyguards; there’s no room for Elezar in that scenario, but if it’s what Skellan wants, he will step aside.  
  
“There you are,” Skellan says, suddenly appearing next to him, without the bodyguards Elezar had spotted earlier. Elezar doesn’t twitch in surprise, but it’s a close thing. Dressed in beautifully-fitted clothes that are a far cry from his prison garb, with his crimson hair washed and styled and treated to perfection, it’s hard to miss Skellan even amongst the other well-dressed guests at Count Radulf’s soiree, but somehow Skellan manages to slip around largely unnoticed.  
  
By magic, probably. Elezar wishes he could do the same. He’s a head taller than most of the people in the room, and draws eyes no matter what he does.  
  
“Here I am,” Elezar agrees, smiling. Skellan’s eyes crinkle up in the corner as he returns the smile, a rakish expression that displays his exceptionally sharp canines—all the more charming because Skellan has little idea of how much more handsome it makes him look.  
  
And then there’s the way Skellan always crowds into his space like this. It’s not that he touches Elezar all the time, but he’s always close enough that Elezar would barely have to reach out to brush a thumb over his cheek, or take his hand; he’d have only to lean down a few scant inches to press their mouths together. People watch Elezar when Skellan is around him, and their gazes linger when Skellan goes; sizing him up. Wondering.  
  
Most of Milmuraille’s high society thinks they’re fucking. Whether Count Radulf is among that number, Elezar can’t say. But Skellan’s attachment to Elezar is what keeps the count at bay, for now—and Elezar is pretty attached himself. Attitudes toward relationships like Kiram and Javier’s are more accepting now, but it’s still generally looked down upon in Cadeleon and, more specifically, the country’s military; Labara is much more liberal in that regard, but Elezar can’t shake off a lifetime of internalized issues so easily. He doesn’t encourage Skellan’s advances—but he can’t bring himself to turn away either.  
  
Besides which, Skellan is Count Radulf’s heir, and he’ll be expected to continue the family line. He probably just seeks out Elezar’s company whenever he can because Elezar is familiar and trusted. He spent his adolescence in an underground black site, for God’s sake. He doesn’t realize what his proximity to Elezar looks like to others.  
  
“What are you frowning about, my man?” Skellan asks, pressing his thumb lightly against one corner of Elezar’s downturned mouth. It’s lucky Elezar wasn’t expecting the touch, or he might have leaned into the warmth of Skellan’s hand; as it is, the fleeting contact is gone too swiftly for him to overcome his surprise. “Who do I have to kill?”  
  
Elezar finds himself smiling again in spite of himself. People will talk regardless of how they act around each other, so a few more smiles than he might otherwise give won’t matter. “No one,” he says. “Yet.”  
  
“Just say the word,” Skellan promises, before turning with obvious reluctance to scan the hall.  
  
His father appears from among the press of people then, his progress obvious in the way the crowd parts before him, heads turning toward him like flowers following the sun. Elezar would have noticed him coming, had he not been so distracted by Skellan; an inexcusable lapse of attention, and further evidence that his infatuation with Skellan is just getting in the way.  
  
Hallen Radulf is radiant. He’s dressed and styled as exquisitely as Skellan, and he wears the finery like a second skin, a noticeable contrast to Skellan, who tugs at his collar or his sleeves often enough over the course of an evening that the lines of his outfit always end up ruined. In contrast, Count Radulf always looks perfectly put together, as if nothing can touch him; people like that have always put Elezar on edge, though he tries to hide it for Skellan’s sake.  
  
Elezar bows, schooling his face into a polite mask. He has years of practice, and the count is hardly the worst person to whom Elezar’s ever had to pay obeisance.  
  
“Where are your bodyguards, Hilthorn?” the count asks, barely sparing Elezar more than a nod. Elezar bites the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting more visibly.  
  
“Who?” Skellan looks genuinely confused. “Those men you sent up with your valet? I don’t need them. Elezar can protect me.”  
  
The warmth those words evoke in Elezar is contrasted by the way the count’s eyes glitter coldly as he looks Elezar up and down. “Come now, Hilthorn,” Skellan’s father says, cajoling. “I’m sure Elezar has obligations back home he must attend to.”  
  
“Elezar defected, Father,” Skellan says. The title sounds strange in his voice; Elezar wonders if it feels strange for Skellan to say it. “He can’t go back home.”  
  
“Commander Lecha has been looking for a reliable second,” the count says smoothly, gesturing to an older, military man speaking with Atreau. “Elezar’s skills will be better suited to the garrison.”  
  
Skellan’s jaw clenches. “I already told you, Elezar defected. He can’t hold a position within Cadeleon’s military. Besides, Elezar fits in at court better than I do. His father is Earl Grunito.”  
  
Elezar tries not to stare; he certainly didn’t tell Skellan about that, simply because he knows that his family’s influence is of little use to him now—though he’s never traded on it willingly before this in any case. The Grunito name has opened many doors to him, but Elezar tries to be aware of his privilege and consciously avoids abusing it. Perhaps he found out about Elezar’s family on his own? He knew about Isandro’s fate, after all, and he killed one of the murderers in the Grunito’s ancestral home.  
  
Radulf looks Elezar over again, eyes narrowed slightly, before glancing at a particularly tactless young man trying to edge close enough to eavesdrop. The young man freezes, looking like nothing more than a prey animal that’s found itself before a predator, but the count merely flicks out a hand dismissively; the ambient noise of the crowded hall fades at once to a distant murmur and the would-be eavesdropper slinks away.  
  
On the other side of the room, Elezar sees Javier’s head go up along with a number of other, subtler reactions from assorted magical guests. There’s a questioning expression on Javier’s face when he meets Elezar’s gaze, but Elezar shakes his head slightly.  
  
“Hilthorn, I hesitated to bring this up with you before, but this Cadeleonian’s influence over you worries me. Now you tell me he’s old nobility? I’m sure he offered to tutor you in court manners—among other things—” he glares at Elezar again, which at least settles which side of the _are they fucking_ debate he’s on, “—but I don’t trust his motives.”  
  
“I trust Elezar with my life,” Skellan says stubbornly.  
  
“Your bodyguards would gladly give their lives for you,” the count says, his jaw setting in a mulish look nearly identical to his son’s.  
  
“But I don’t want them to!” Skellan snaps. Elezar shifts, putting his bulk between Skellan’s increasing agitation and the crowd of curious onlookers. Actions can often convey much more than words, and any decently skilled lip readers would be able to discern the topic of conversation in any case. Better to avoid cut them off entirely. “They’d throw away their lives for me because you have them under thrall, but everything Elezar has done for me was his own choice.”  
  
The count steps closer, all his cultivated grace and dignity faded away like smoke before a gale. He and Skellan bring to mind a pair of wolves circling each other more than they do father and son. “How can you trust his loyalty to you won’t change as easily as his loyalty to Cadeleon?”  
  
“He gave me his knife!” Skellan pulls out the knife in question from god knows where; his clothes are tight enough that concealing a weapon beneath them should be impossible.  
  
Back to the knife again. Elezar’s been meaning to ask Javier about that, but he’d never found the time; now, he wishes he had. The count actually stops, his eyes widening faintly as he looks from the blade to Elezar and back again. Elezar keeps his face stoic, as if he’d known exactly what he was getting into when he pressed the knife into Skellan’s skeletal fingers and not merely been trying to make him feel safe.  
  
A startled outcry from the guests filters through the count’s spell, loud enough to break through the tense tableau between father and son. The three of them turn to see Atreau brawling with the garrison’s commander near the centre of the hall. _Atreau_ , of all people; Elezar would have expected Kiram to start a fistfight before Atreau, and even that would have to be under extreme duress.  
  
Which of course begs the question of _why_ Atreau would throw down with the man who is arguably the biggest threat to their group.  
  
“We’ll finish this discussion later,” the count says tersely, before visibly pulling on his charming persona and gliding through the crowd towards the fight. Skellan and Elezar follow in his wake; Javier and Kiram have broken up the two combatants by the time they reach them, however.  
  
The count and Javier soothe ruffled feathers as best they can, then Javier and Kiram draw the count away with some distraction or other. Javier shoots Elezar a pointed look, flicking his eyes at Atreau, before they disappear into the crowd.  
  
“What the hell, Atreau?” Elezar demands when they find a secluded drawing room away from the main hall.  
  
Atreau glares at him over the handkerchief a concerned bystander had pressed into his hands; it’s soaked with blood, but possibly-broken nose aside, Atreau seems to have escaped the fight unscathed. The same cannot be said of the commander, who probably should have been helped from the room if the way he was limping was any indication. But no one had offered him any aid whatsoever.  
  
“He’s running a brothel out of the garrison,” Atreau hisses. Under other circumstances, the nasally edge to his otherwise cultured voice might have been amusing. “You know what they call it? The Cradle. And he was fucking _proud of it_.”  
  
“I’ve heard people talking about it,” Skellan says. “I don’t understand why someone would name a brothel—” He glances at Elezar for confirmation and stops, frowning at the expression he sees there. Elezar isn’t sure what his face looks like at the moment, too horrified for words.  
  
“They call it the Cradle because he’s prostituting children, Skellan.” It’s uncharacteristically blunt, but Elezar’s glad Atreau left no room for confusion.  
  
“Why would the count allow that?” Skellan demands, looking from Elezar to Atreau and back again. “Elezar?”  
  
“The commander doesn’t owe him allegiance,” Elezar explains, when it becomes obvious that Atreau doesn’t intend to answer. “The garrison is considered Cadeleonian land, and Labaran law holds no sway over it. The count’s hands are tied; if he goes after the commander, Cadeleon will retaliate. Of course,” he adds, his mouth twisting, “child prostitution is illegal in Cadeleon as well. But the authorities must be turning a blind eye to the Cradle, if they’re even aware of it at all. They don’t look too closely at Milmuraille, or they might have to admit that magic actually exists.”  
  
Skellan scowls down at his hands. “It’s not right.”  
  
“It isn’t,” Elezar agrees. Even here, they can’t escape Cadeleon’s influence.  
  
“You should have hit him harder,” Skellan tells Atreau, stepping up to his side. “I can heal that, if you want.”  
  
“Please.” An impressive bruise is already starting to bloom across Atreau’s handsome face, but Skellan soothes it away in a few seconds. Atreau tries to muster his usual effortless charm and head back into the party, but even Skellan notices his disquiet.  
  
“Elezar can say you’re _indisposed_ ,” Skellan says, flicking a proud look in Elezar’s direction. He’d offered a prominent socialite that excuse when Skellan had been on the verge of clumsily stabbing the ignorant young man with a fork a few days ago. “I’m sure one of those young people hanging off your arm will be happy to kiss it better.”  
  
Atreau stares at Skellan, all of his artifice stripped away again, like he’s never seen the witch before. He’s been watching Skellan with that look a lot; surely he’d be used to Skellan defying all his expectations by now, though.  
  
“That sounds lovely,” Atreau says lightly a few seconds later, his expression purely amused when Skellan looks back at him. “I hope the two of you have a good time in my absence. Elezar’s not much for parties, but don’t let that slow you down, Skellan.”  
  
“Hey,” Elezar protests, though he can’t muster enough heat for proper annoyance, and Atreau slips away down the hall before Elezar can try to get his own back. He sighs, quietly, and follows Skellan back towards the sounds of the crowd.

* * *

Later that night, Elezar wakes to Skellan slipping into bed with him.  
  
He freezes as his brain attempts to process everything that’s happening. This moment is one that has often haunted his dreams since their arrival in Labara, but it’s too _real_ — Elezar grunts, flinching automatically as Skellan’s bony knee digs into the meat of his thigh, dangerously close to far more sensitive areas. This, too, is not unfamiliar, but the Skellan that dwells in Elezar’s fantasies is not so unwieldy.  
  
Skellan’s wearing—a nightgown? Elezar can’t help staring; the skirt is rucked up indecently, leaving very little to the imagination, and it should be ridiculous, long out of fashion as it is, but somehow it fits in this setting, on Skellan’s body.  
  
Elezar wants to tear it off, but he settles for bracing Skellan’s waist instead, his hands running down Skellan’s sides—to keep the ridiculous nightwear from revealing too much, of course. The way the other man immediately relaxes into his hold—all but collapsing on top of Elezar—is helpful in that it hides everything from view. Except now Elezar can feel Skellan pressed up against him, separated only by a thin layer of fabric.  
  
Skellan props his chin on Elezar’s chest, seemingly oblivious to the effect he has. “Aren’t you chilly without any clothes? It’s so cold this far north,” Skellan says, and presses his freezing feet against Elezar’s shins to demonstrate.  
  
Elezar flinches again, biting back a curse, and hurriedly pulls the displaced blankets over them.  
  
Skellan fairly beams down at him, before abruptly sobering. “We’ll have to kill Leche ourselves,” Skellan says. No point in feigning sleep, or asking Skellan what he means by—everything. Slipping into Elezar’s room like a lover, proposing murder. “Like your brother’s murderers,” he adds, as if Elezar needs clarification.  
  
Elezar should refuse. Skellan has a moral code even more convoluted and impenetrable than Kiram’s; the oddest things offend his strange sensibilities, while he blithely accepts others that Elezar finds intolerable. Murder is wrong; Elezar knows this. Thou shalt not kill, and all that. Every other religion that Elezar knows of has similar strictures; this isn’t one of the church’s peculiarities like the condemnation of non-heterosexual relationships.  
  
But Skellan’s hands are already stained with blood. If he hadn’t been confined in a lab, and then grown up feral outside of his own body, perhaps he would want the commander to be brought to justice some other way. Then again, the man’s actions are inexcusable; maybe a Skellan raised within the Sun Palace—maybe _Hilthorn Radulf_ would want to kill the commander himself too; perhaps he’d just find reasons not to, the same as his father.  
  
“Yes,” Elezar says. Perhaps if he hadn’t been forced to witness the murder of his eldest brother at the tender age of eleven, he would refuse, but dwelling on what could have been is pointless. If Isandro were still alive today, Elezar is almost entirely certain he wouldn’t have met Skellan; that Skellan would still be wasting away a mile below ground, watched over by some other despicable human being if not by Vigaro.  
  
“His death will weaken Cadeleon’s presence in Milmuraille, which is something the count wants anyway,” Skellan continues, clearly expecting Elezar to disagree; when he does no such thing, Skellan stops and stares.  
  
“Seconds thoughts, my liege?” Elezar means for the title to be teasing, a callback to the way Skellan so casually calls Elezar _my man_ but it comes out entirely too honest: endearment and confession all in one.  
  
Skellan shivers above him; Elezar wraps an arm around him instinctively, though Skellan’s own naturally high body temperature is already warming the pocket of space they carve out beneath the blankets. “Never, my man,” Skellan promises hoarsely, and leans down to kiss him. The angle is awkward, teeth grating together before Skellan tries to adjust and manages to snag a canine against Elezar’s lip.  
  
The tang of his own blood rouses Elezar from his shock; the question of Leche can wait until the morning. In the meantime, Elezar pulls Skellan closer so he can hush his attempted apologies and kiss him _properly_.


End file.
